[Definition will go here]
Frequency: 6
Here are all of the speeches where loo shows up across the corpus:
Nay
,
but
this
dotage
of
our
general’s
O’erflows
the
measure
.
Those
his
goodly
eyes
,
That
o’er
the
files
and
musters
of
the
war
Have
glowed
like
plated
Mars
,
now
bend
,
now
turn
The
office
and
devotion
of
their
view
Upon
a
tawny
front
.
His
captain’s
heart
,
Which
in
the
scuffles
of
great
fights
hath
burst
The
buckles
on
his
breast
,
reneges
all
temper
And
is
become
the
bellows
and
the
fan
To
cool
a
gypsy’s
lust
.
Look
where
they
come
.
Take
but
good
note
,
and
you
shall
see
in
him
The
triple
pillar
of
the
world
transformed
Into
a
strumpet’s
fool
.
Behold
and
see
.
Perchance
?
Nay
,
and
most
like
.
You
must
not
stay
here
longer
;
your
dismission
Is
come
from
Caesar
.
Therefore
hear
it
,
Antony
.
Where’s
Fulvia’s
process
?
Caesar’s
,
I
would
say
—
both
?
Call
in
the
messengers
.
As
I
am
Egypt’s
queen
,
Thou
blushest
,
Antony
,
and
that
blood
of
thine
Is
Caesar’s
homager
;
else
so
thy
cheek
pays
shame
When
shrill-tongued
Fulvia
scolds
.
The
messengers
!
Amen
,
dear
goddess
,
hear
that
prayer
of
the
people
.
For
,
as
it
is
a
heartbreaking
to
see
a
handsome
man
loose-wived
,
so
it
is
a
deadly
sorrow
to
behold
a
foul
knave
uncuckolded
.
Therefore
,
dear
Isis
,
keep
decorum
and
fortune
him
accordingly
.
We
will
not
look
upon
him
.
Go
with
us
.
No
more
light
answers
.
Let
our
officers
Have
notice
what
we
purpose
.
I
shall
break
The
cause
of
our
expedience
to
the
Queen
And
get
her
leave
to
part
.
For
not
alone
The
death
of
Fulvia
,
with
more
urgent
touches
,
Do
strongly
speak
to
us
,
but
the
letters
too
Of
many
our
contriving
friends
in
Rome
Petition
us
at
home
.
Sextus
Pompeius
Hath
given
the
dare
to
Caesar
and
commands
The
empire
of
the
sea
.
Our
slippery
people
,
Whose
love
is
never
linked
to
the
deserver
Till
his
deserts
are
past
,
begin
to
throw
Pompey
the
Great
and
all
his
dignities
Upon
his
son
,
who
—
high
in
name
and
power
,
Higher
than
both
in
blood
and
life
—
stands
up
For
the
main
soldier
;
whose
quality
,
going
on
,
The
sides
o’
th’
world
may
danger
.
Much
is
breeding
Which
,
like
the
courser’s
hair
,
hath
yet
but
life
And
not
a
serpent’s
poison
.
Say
our
pleasure
,
To
such
whose
place
is
under
us
,
requires
Our
quick
remove
from
hence
.
She’s
dead
,
my
queen
.
Look
here
,
and
at
thy
sovereign
leisure
read
The
garboils
she
awaked
;
at
the
last
,
best
,
See
when
and
where
she
died
.
So
Fulvia
told
me
.
I
prithee
turn
aside
and
weep
for
her
,
Then
bid
adieu
to
me
,
and
say
the
tears
Belong
to
Egypt
.
Good
now
,
play
one
scene
Of
excellent
dissembling
,
and
let
it
look
Like
perfect
honor
.
You’ll heat my blood . No more !
And
target
.
Still
he
mends
.
But
this
is
not
the
best
.
Look
,
prithee
,
Charmian
,
How
this
Herculean
Roman
does
become
The
carriage
of
his
chafe
.
Caesar
,
I
bring
thee
word
Menecrates
and
Menas
,
famous
pirates
,
Makes
the
sea
serve
them
,
which
they
ear
and
wound
With
keels
of
every
kind
.
Many
hot
inroads
They
make
in
Italy
—
the
borders
maritime
Lack
blood
to
think
on
’t
—
and
flush
youth
revolt
.
No
vessel
can
peep
forth
but
’tis
as
soon
Taken
as
seen
,
for
Pompey’s
name
strikes
more
Than
could
his
war
resisted
.
Antony
,
Leave
thy
lascivious
wassails
.
When
thou
once
Was
beaten
from
Modena
,
where
thou
slew’st
Hirsius
and
Pansa
,
consuls
,
at
thy
heel
Did
famine
follow
,
whom
thou
fought’st
against
,
Though
daintily
brought
up
,
with
patience
more
Than
savages
could
suffer
.
Thou
didst
drink
The
stale
of
horses
and
the
gilded
puddle
Which
beasts
would
cough
at
.
Thy
palate
then
did
deign
The
roughest
berry
on
the
rudest
hedge
.
Yea
,
like
the
stag
when
snow
the
pasture
sheets
,
The
barks
of
trees
thou
browsèd
.
On
the
Alps
It
is
reported
thou
didst
eat
strange
flesh
Which
some
did
die
to
look
on
.
And
all
this
—
It
wounds
thine
honor
that
I
speak
it
now
—
Was
borne
so
like
a
soldier
that
thy
cheek
So
much
as
lanked
not
.
O
,
Charmian
,
Where
think’st
thou
he
is
now
?
Stands
he
,
or
sits
he
?
Or
does
he
walk
?
Or
is
he
on
his
horse
?
O
happy
horse
,
to
bear
the
weight
of
Antony
!
Do
bravely
,
horse
,
for
wot’st
thou
whom
thou
mov’st
?
The
demi-Atlas
of
this
Earth
earth
,
the
arm
And
burgonet
of
men
.
He’s
speaking
now
,
Or
murmuring
Where’s
my
serpent
of
old
Nile
?
For
so
he
calls
me
.
Now
I
feed
myself
With
most
delicious
poison
.
Think
on
me
That
am
with
Phoebus’
amorous
pinches
black
,
And
wrinkled
deep
in
time
?
Broad-fronted
Caesar
,
When
thou
wast
here
above
the
ground
,
I
was
A
morsel
for
a
monarch
.
And
great
Pompey
Would
stand
and
make
his
eyes
grow
in
my
brow
;
There
would
he
anchor
his
aspect
,
and
die
With
looking
on
his
life
.
O
,
well-divided
disposition
!
—
Note
him
,
Note
him
,
good
Charmian
,
’tis
the
man
!
But
note
him
:
He
was
not
sad
,
for
he
would
shine
on
those
That
make
their
looks
by
his
;
he
was
not
merry
,
Which
seemed
to
tell
them
his
remembrance
lay
In
Egypt
with
his
joy
;
but
between
both
.
O
,
heavenly
mingle
!
—
Be’st
thou
sad
or
merry
,
The
violence
of
either
thee
becomes
,
So
does
it
no
man’s
else
.
—
Met’st
thou
my
posts
?
By
Isis
,
I
will
give
thee
bloody
teeth
If
thou
with
Caesar
paragon
again
My
man
of
men
.
My
salad
days
,
When
I
was
green
in
judgment
,
cold
in
blood
,
To
say
as
I
said
then
.
But
come
,
away
,
Get
me
ink
and
paper
.
He
shall
have
every
day
a
several
greeting
,
Or
I’ll
unpeople
Egypt
.
He
dreams
.
I
know
they
are
in
Rome
together
,
Looking
for
Antony
.
But
all
the
charms
of
love
,
Salt
Cleopatra
,
soften
thy
wanned
lip
!
Let
witchcraft
join
with
beauty
,
lust
with
both
;
Tie
up
the
libertine
in
a
field
of
feasts
;
Keep
his
brain
fuming
.
Epicurean
cooks
Sharpen
with
cloyless
sauce
his
appetite
,
That
sleep
and
feeding
may
prorogue
his
honor
Even
till
a
Lethe’d
dullness
—
How
now
,
Varrius
?
I
shall
entreat
him
To
answer
like
himself
.
If
Caesar
move
him
,
Let
Antony
look
over
Caesar’s
head
And
speak
as
loud
as
Mars
.
By
Jupiter
,
Were
I
the
wearer
of
Antonio’s
beard
,
I
would
not
shave
’t
today
.
You’ve
said
,
sir
.
We
looked
not
for
Mark
Antony
here
.
Pray
you
,
is
he
married
to
Cleopatra
?
Noble
Ventidius
,
Whilst
yet
with
Parthian
blood
thy
sword
is
warm
,
The
fugitive
Parthians
follow
.
Spur
through
Media
,
Mesopotamia
,
and
the
shelters
whither
The
routed
fly
.
So
thy
grand
captain
,
Antony
,
Shall
set
thee
on
triumphant
chariots
and
Put
garlands
on
thy
head
.
Sir
,
look
well
to
my
husband’s
house
,
and
—
Come
,
sir
,
come
,
I’ll
wrestle
with
you
in
my
strength
of
love
.
Look
,
here
I
have
you
,
thus
I
let
you
go
,
And
give
you
to
the
gods
.
Good
Majesty
,
Herod
of
Jewry
dare
not
look
upon
you
But
when
you
are
well
pleased
.
Madam
,
in
Rome
.
I
looked
her
in
the
face
and
saw
her
led
Between
her
brother
and
Mark
Antony
.
I
think
so
,
Charmian
:
dull
of
tongue
,
and
dwarfish
!
—
What
majesty
is
in
her
gait
?
Remember
,
If
e’er
thou
looked’st
on
majesty
.
She
once
being
loofed
,
The
noble
ruin
of
her
magic
,
Antony
,
Claps
on
his
sea-wing
and
,
like
a
doting
mallard
,
Leaving
the
fight
in
height
,
flies
after
her
.
I
never
saw
an
action
of
such
shame
.
Experience
,
manhood
,
honor
ne’er
before
Did
violate
so
itself
.
I
have
fled
myself
and
have
instructed
cowards
To
run
and
show
their
shoulders
.
Friends
,
begone
.
I
have
myself
resolved
upon
a
course
Which
has
no
need
of
you
.
Begone
.
My
treasure’s
in
the
harbor
;
take
it
.
O
,
I
followed
that
I
blush
to
look
upon
!
My
very
hairs
do
mutiny
,
for
the
white
Reprove
the
brown
for
rashness
,
and
they
them
For
fear
and
doting
.
Friends
,
begone
.
You
shall
Have
letters
from
me
to
some
friends
that
will
Sweep
your
way
for
you
.
Pray
you
look
not
sad
,
Nor
make
replies
of
loathness
.
Take
the
hint
Which
my
despair
proclaims
.
Let
that
be
left
Which
leaves
itself
.
To
the
seaside
straightway
!
I
will
possess
you
of
that
ship
and
treasure
.
Leave
me
,
I
pray
,
a
little
—
pray
you
,
now
,
Nay
,
do
so
—
for
indeed
I
have
lost
command
.
Therefore
I
pray
you
—
I’ll
see
you
by
and
by
.
O
,
whither
hast
them
led
me
,
Egypt
?
See
How
I
convey
my
shame
out
of
thine
eyes
,
By
looking
back
what
I
have
left
behind
’Stroyed
in
dishonor
.
Tug
him
away
.
Being
whipped
,
Bring
him
again
.
This
jack
of
Caesar’s
shall
Bear
us
an
errand
to
him
.
You
were
half
blasted
ere
I
knew
you
.
Ha
!
Have
I
my
pillow
left
unpressed
in
Rome
,
Forborne
the
getting
of
a
lawful
race
,
And
by
a
gem
of
women
,
to
be
abused
By
one
that
looks
on
feeders
?
If
that
thy
father
live
,
let
him
repent
Thou
wast
not
made
his
daughter
;
and
be
thou
sorry
To
follow
Caesar
in
his
triumph
,
since
Thou
hast
been
whipped
for
following
him
.
Henceforth
The
white
hand
of
a
lady
fever
thee
;
Shake
thou
to
look
on
’t
.
Get
thee
back
to
Caesar
.
Tell
him
thy
entertainment
.
Look
thou
say
He
makes
me
angry
with
him
;
for
he
seems
Proud
and
disdainful
,
harping
on
what
I
am
,
Not
what
he
knew
I
was
.
He
makes
me
angry
,
And
at
this
time
most
easy
’tis
to
do
’t
,
When
my
good
stars
that
were
my
former
guides
Have
empty
left
their
orbs
and
shot
their
fires
Into
th’
abysm
of
hell
.
If
he
mislike
My
speech
and
what
is
done
,
tell
him
he
has
Hipparchus
,
my
enfranchèd
bondman
,
whom
He
may
at
pleasure
whip
,
or
hang
,
or
torture
,
As
he
shall
like
to
quit
me
.
Urge
it
thou
.
Hence
with
thy
stripes
,
begone
!
I
am
satisfied
.
Caesar
sits
down
in
Alexandria
,
where
I
will
oppose
his
fate
.
Our
force
by
land
Hath
nobly
held
;
our
severed
navy
too
Have
knit
again
,
and
fleet
,
threatening
most
sealike
.
Where
hast
thou
been
,
my
heart
?
Dost
thou
hear
,
lady
?
If
from
the
field
I
shall
return
once
more
To
kiss
these
lips
,
I
will
appear
in
blood
.
I
and
my
sword
will
earn
our
chronicle
.
There’s
hope
in
’t
yet
.
Tomorrow
,
soldier
,
By
sea
and
land
I’ll
fight
.
Or
I
will
live
Or
bathe
my
dying
honor
in
the
blood
Shall
make
it
live
again
.
Woo’t
thou
fight
well
?
Tend
me
tonight
;
May
be
it
is
the
period
of
your
duty
.
Haply
you
shall
not
see
me
more
,
or
if
,
A
mangled
shadow
.
Perchance
tomorrow
You’ll
serve
another
master
.
I
look
on
you
As
one
that
takes
his
leave
.
Mine
honest
friends
,
I
turn
you
not
away
,
but
,
like
a
master
Married
to
your
good
service
,
stay
till
death
.
Tend
me
tonight
two
hours
—
I
ask
no
more
—
And
the
gods
yield
you
for
’t
!
What
mean
you
,
sir
,
To
give
them
this
discomfort
?
Look
,
they
weep
,
And
I
,
an
ass
,
am
onion-eyed
.
For
shame
,
Transform
us
not
to
women
.
Rarely
,
rarely
.
He
that
unbuckles
this
,
till
we
do
please
To
daff
’t
for
our
repose
,
shall
hear
a
storm
.
—
Thou
fumblest
,
Eros
,
and
my
queen’s
a
squire
More
tight
at
this
than
thou
.
Dispatch
.
—
O
love
,
That
thou
couldst
see
my
wars
today
,
and
knew’st
The
royal
occupation
,
thou
shouldst
see
A
workman
in
’t
.
Good
morrow
to
thee
.
Welcome
.
Thou
look’st
like
him
that
knows
a
warlike
charge
.
To
business
that
we
love
we
rise
betime
And
go
to
’t
with
delight
.
We
have
beat
him
to
his
camp
.
Run
one
before
And
let
the
Queen
know
of
our
gests
.
Tomorrow
Before
the
sun
shall
see
’s
,
we’ll
spill
the
blood
That
has
today
escaped
.
I
thank
you
all
,
For
doughty-handed
are
you
,
and
have
fought
Not
as
you
served
the
cause
,
but
as
’t
had
been
Each
man’s
like
mine
.
You
have
shown
all
Hectors
.
Enter
the
city
.
Clip
your
wives
,
your
friends
.
Tell
them
your
feats
,
whilst
they
with
joyful
tears
Wash
the
congealment
from
your
wounds
and
kiss
The
honored
gashes
whole
.
Give
me
thy
hand
.
To
this
great
fairy
I’ll
commend
thy
acts
,
Make
her
thanks
bless
thee
.
—
O
,
thou
day
o’
th’
world
,
Chain
mine
armed
neck
.
Leap
thou
,
attire
and
all
,
Through
proof
of
harness
to
my
heart
,
and
there
Ride
on
the
pants
triumphing
.
I
would
they’d
fight
i’
th’
fire
or
i’
th’
air
;
We’d
fight
there
too
.
But
this
it
is
:
our
foot
Upon
the
hills
adjoining
to
the
city
Shall
stay
with
us
—
order
for
sea
is
given
;
They
have
put
forth
the
haven
—
Where
their
appointment
we
may
best
discover
And
look
on
their
endeavor
.
Swallows
have
built
In
Cleopatra’s
sails
their
nests
.
The
augurs
Say
they
know
not
,
they
cannot
tell
,
look
grimly
And
dare
not
speak
their
knowledge
.
Antony
Is
valiant
and
dejected
,
and
by
starts
His
fretted
fortunes
give
him
hope
and
fear
Of
what
he
has
and
has
not
.
All
is
lost
!
This
foul
Egyptian
hath
betrayèd
me
.
My
fleet
hath
yielded
to
the
foe
,
and
yonder
They
cast
their
caps
up
and
carouse
together
Like
friends
long
lost
.
Triple-turned
whore
!
’Tis
thou
Hast
sold
me
to
this
novice
,
and
my
heart
Makes
only
wars
on
thee
.
Bid
them
all
fly
—
For
when
I
am
revenged
upon
my
charm
,
I
have
done
all
.
Bid
them
all
fly
.
Begone
!
O
sun
,
thy
uprise
shall
I
see
no
more
.
Fortune
and
Antony
part
here
;
even
here
Do
we
shake
hands
.
All
come
to
this
?
The
hearts
That
spanieled
me
at
heels
,
to
whom
I
gave
Their
wishes
,
do
discandy
,
melt
their
sweets
On
blossoming
Caesar
,
and
this
pine
is
barked
That
overtopped
them
all
.
Betrayed
I
am
.
O
,
this
false
soul
of
Egypt
!
This
grave
charm
,
Whose
eye
becked
forth
my
wars
and
called
them
home
,
Whose
bosom
was
my
crownet
,
my
chief
end
,
Like
a
right
gypsy
hath
at
fast
and
loose
Beguiled
me
to
the
very
heart
of
loss
.
—
What
Eros
,
Eros
!
Ah
,
thou
spell
!
Avaunt
!
My
dear
master
,
My
captain
,
and
my
emperor
,
let
me
say
,
Before
I
strike
this
bloody
stroke
,
farewell
.
His
death’s
upon
him
,
but
not
dead
.
Look
out
o’
th’
other
side
your
monument
.
His
guard
have
brought
him
thither
.
No
more
but
e’en
a
woman
,
and
commanded
By
such
poor
passion
as
the
maid
that
milks
And
does
the
meanest
chares
.
It
were
for
me
To
throw
my
scepter
at
the
injurious
gods
,
To
tell
them
that
this
world
did
equal
theirs
Till
they
had
stolen
our
jewel
.
All’s
but
naught
.
Patience
is
sottish
,
and
impatience
does
Become
a
dog
that’s
mad
.
Then
is
it
sin
To
rush
into
the
secret
house
of
death
Ere
death
dare
come
to
us
?
How
do
you
,
women
?
What
,
what
,
good
cheer
!
Why
,
how
now
,
Charmian
?
My
noble
girls
!
Ah
,
women
,
women
!
Look
,
Our
lamp
is
spent
;
it’s
out
.
Good
sirs
,
take
heart
.
We’ll
bury
him
;
and
then
,
what’s
brave
,
what’s
noble
,
Let’s
do
’t
after
the
high
Roman
fashion
And
make
death
proud
to
take
us
.
Come
,
away
.
This
case
of
that
huge
spirit
now
is
cold
.
Ah
women
,
women
!
Come
,
we
have
no
friend
But
resolution
and
the
briefest
end
.
He
is
dead
,
Caesar
,
Not
by
a
public
minister
of
justice
,
Nor
by
a
hirèd
knife
,
but
that
self
hand
Which
writ
his
honor
in
the
acts
it
did
Hath
,
with
the
courage
which
the
heart
did
lend
it
,
Splitted
the
heart
.
This
is
his
sword
.
I
robbed
his
wound
of
it
.
Behold
it
stained
With
his
most
noble
blood
.
Look
you
sad
,
friends
?
The
gods
rebuke
me
,
but
it
is
tidings
To
wash
the
eyes
of
kings
.
O
Antony
,
I
have
followed
thee
to
this
,
but
we
do
lance
Diseases
in
our
bodies
.
I
must
perforce
Have
shown
to
thee
such
a
declining
day
Or
look
on
thine
.
We
could
not
stall
together
In
the
whole
world
.
But
yet
let
me
lament
With
tears
as
sovereign
as
the
blood
of
hearts
That
thou
my
brother
,
my
competitor
In
top
of
all
design
,
my
mate
in
empire
,
Friend
and
companion
in
the
front
of
war
,
The
arm
of
mine
own
body
,
and
the
heart
Where
mine
his
thoughts
did
kindle
—
that
our
stars
Unreconciliable
should
divide
Our
equalness
to
this
.
Hear
me
,
good
friends
—
But
I
will
tell
you
at
some
meeter
season
.
The
business
of
this
man
looks
out
of
him
.
We’ll
hear
him
what
he
says
.
—
Whence
are
you
?
Pray
you
tell
him
I
am
his
fortune’s
vassal
and
I
send
him
The
greatness
he
has
got
.
I
hourly
learn
A
doctrine
of
obedience
,
and
would
gladly
Look
him
i’
th’
face
.
You
must
think
this
,
look
you
,
that
the
worm
will
do
his
kind
.
Look
you
,
the
worm
is
not
to
be
trusted
but
in
the
keeping
of
wise
people
,
for
indeed
there
is
no
goodness
in
the
worm
.
O
,
noble
weakness
!
If
they
had
swallowed
poison
,
’twould
appear
By
external
swelling
;
but
she
looks
like
sleep
,
As
she
would
catch
another
Antony
In
her
strong
toil
of
grace
.
Here
on
her
breast
There
is
a
vent
of
blood
,
and
something
blown
.
The
like
is
on
her
arm
.
Ay
,
better
than
him
I
am
before
knows
me
.
I
know
you
are
my
eldest
brother
,
and
in
the
gentle
condition
of
blood
you
should
so
know
me
.
The
courtesy
of
nations
allows
you
my
better
,
in
that
you
are
the
first-born
,
but
the
same
tradition
takes
not
away
my
blood
,
were
there
twenty
brothers
betwixt
us
.
I
have
as
much
of
my
father
in
me
as
you
,
albeit
I
confess
your
coming
before
me
is
nearer
to
his
reverence
.
Charles
,
I
thank
thee
for
thy
love
to
me
,
which
thou
shalt
find
I
will
most
kindly
requite
.
I
had
myself
notice
of
my
brother’s
purpose
herein
,
and
have
by
underhand
means
labored
to
dissuade
him
from
it
;
but
he
is
resolute
.
I’ll
tell
thee
,
Charles
,
it
is
the
stubbornest
young
fellow
of
France
,
full
of
ambition
,
an
envious
emulator
of
every
man’s
good
parts
,
a
secret
and
villainous
contriver
against
me
his
natural
brother
.
Therefore
use
thy
discretion
.
I
had
as
lief
thou
didst
break
his
neck
as
his
finger
.
And
thou
wert
best
look
to
’t
,
for
if
thou
dost
him
any
slight
disgrace
,
or
if
he
do
not
mightily
grace
himself
on
thee
,
he
will
practice
against
thee
by
poison
,
entrap
thee
by
some
treacherous
device
,
and
never
leave
thee
till
he
hath
ta’en
thy
life
by
some
indirect
means
or
other
.
For
I
assure
thee
—
and
almost
with
tears
I
speak
it
—
there
is
not
one
so
young
and
so
villainous
this
day
living
.
I
speak
but
brotherly
of
him
,
but
should
I
anatomize
him
to
thee
as
he
is
,
I
must
blush
and
weep
,
and
thou
must
look
pale
and
wonder
.
Alas , he is too young . Yet he looks successfully .
Let
me
love
him
for
that
,
and
do
you
love
him
because
I
do
.
Look
,
here
comes
the
Duke
.
I’ll
have
no
worse
a
name
than
Jove’s
own
page
,
And
therefore
look
you
call
me
Ganymede
.
But
what
will
you
be
called
?
O
yes
,
into
a
thousand
similes
.
First
,
for
his
weeping
into
the
needless
stream
:
Poor
deer
,
quoth
he
,
thou
mak’st
a
testament
As
worldlings
do
,
giving
thy
sum
of
more
To
that
which
had
too
much
.
Then
,
being
there
alone
,
Left
and
abandoned
of
his
velvet
friends
:
’Tis
right
,
quoth
he
.
Thus
misery
doth
part
The
flux
of
company
.
Anon
a
careless
herd
,
Full
of
the
pasture
,
jumps
along
by
him
And
never
stays
to
greet
him
.
Ay
,
quoth
Jaques
,
Sweep
on
,
you
fat
and
greasy
citizens
.
’Tis
just
the
fashion
.
Wherefore
do
you
look
Upon
that
poor
and
broken
bankrupt
there
?
Thus
most
invectively
he
pierceth
through
The
body
of
country
,
city
,
court
,
Yea
,
and
of
this
our
life
,
swearing
that
we
Are
mere
usurpers
,
tyrants
,
and
what’s
worse
,
To
fright
the
animals
and
to
kill
them
up
In
their
assigned
and
native
dwelling
place
.
What
,
wouldst
thou
have
me
go
and
beg
my
food
,
Or
with
a
base
and
boist’rous
sword
enforce
A
thievish
living
on
the
common
road
?
This
I
must
do
,
or
know
not
what
to
do
;
Yet
this
I
will
not
do
,
do
how
I
can
.
I
rather
will
subject
me
to
the
malice
Of
a
diverted
blood
and
bloody
brother
.
But
do
not
so
.
I
have
five
hundred
crowns
,
The
thrifty
hire
I
saved
under
your
father
,
Which
I
did
store
to
be
my
foster
nurse
When
service
should
in
my
old
limbs
lie
lame
,
And
unregarded
age
in
corners
thrown
.
Take
that
,
and
He
that
doth
the
ravens
feed
,
Yea
,
providently
caters
for
the
sparrow
,
Be
comfort
to
my
age
.
Here
is
the
gold
.
All
this
I
give
you
.
Let
me
be
your
servant
.
Though
I
look
old
,
yet
I
am
strong
and
lusty
,
For
in
my
youth
I
never
did
apply
Hot
and
rebellious
liquors
in
my
blood
,
Nor
did
not
with
unbashful
forehead
woo
The
means
of
weakness
and
debility
.
Therefore
my
age
is
as
a
lusty
winter
,
Frosty
but
kindly
.
Let
me
go
with
you
.
I’ll
do
the
service
of
a
younger
man
In
all
your
business
and
necessities
.
Ay
,
be
so
,
good
Touchstone
.
Look
you
who
comes
here
,
a
young
man
and
an
old
in
solemn
talk
.
Well
,
I’ll
end
the
song
.
—
Sirs
,
cover
the
while
;
the
Duke
will
drink
under
this
tree
.
—
He
hath
been
all
this
day
to
look
you
.
Why
,
how
now
,
Adam
?
No
greater
heart
in
thee
?
Live
a
little
,
comfort
a
little
,
cheer
thyself
a
little
.
If
this
uncouth
forest
yield
anything
savage
,
I
will
either
be
food
for
it
or
bring
it
for
food
to
thee
.
Thy
conceit
is
nearer
death
than
thy
powers
.
For
my
sake
,
be
comfortable
.
Hold
death
awhile
at
the
arm’s
end
.
I
will
here
be
with
thee
presently
,
and
if
I
bring
thee
not
something
to
eat
,
I
will
give
thee
leave
to
die
.
But
if
thou
diest
before
I
come
,
thou
art
a
mocker
of
my
labor
.
Well
said
.
Thou
look’st
cheerly
,
and
I’ll
be
with
thee
quickly
.
Yet
thou
liest
in
the
bleak
air
.
Come
,
I
will
bear
thee
to
some
shelter
,
and
thou
shalt
not
die
for
lack
of
a
dinner
if
there
live
anything
in
this
desert
.
Cheerly
,
good
Adam
.
Why
,
how
now
,
monsieur
?
What
a
life
is
this
That
your
poor
friends
must
woo
your
company
?
What
,
you
look
merrily
.
A
fool
,
a
fool
,
I
met
a
fool
i’
th’
forest
,
A
motley
fool
.
A
miserable
world
!
As
I
do
live
by
food
,
I
met
a
fool
,
Who
laid
him
down
and
basked
him
in
the
sun
And
railed
on
Lady
Fortune
in
good
terms
,
In
good
set
terms
,
and
yet
a
motley
fool
.
Good
morrow
,
fool
,
quoth
I
.
No
,
sir
,
quoth
he
,
Call
me
not
fool
till
heaven
hath
sent
me
fortune
.
And
then
he
drew
a
dial
from
his
poke
And
,
looking
on
it
with
lack-luster
eye
,
Says
very
wisely
It
is
ten
o’clock
.
Thus
we
may
see
,
quoth
he
,
how
the
world
wags
.
’Tis
but
an
hour
ago
since
it
was
nine
,
And
after
one
hour
more
’twill
be
eleven
.
And
so
from
hour
to
hour
we
ripe
and
ripe
,
And
then
from
hour
to
hour
we
rot
and
rot
,
And
thereby
hangs
a
tale
.
When
I
did
hear
The
motley
fool
thus
moral
on
the
time
,
My
lungs
began
to
crow
like
chanticleer
That
fools
should
be
so
deep-contemplative
,
And
I
did
laugh
sans
intermission
An
hour
by
his
dial
.
O
noble
fool
!
A
worthy
fool
!
Motley’s
the
only
wear
.
Speak
you
so
gently
?
Pardon
me
,
I
pray
you
.
I
thought
that
all
things
had
been
savage
here
,
And
therefore
put
I
on
the
countenance
Of
stern
commandment
.
But
whate’er
you
are
That
in
this
desert
inaccessible
,
Under
the
shade
of
melancholy
boughs
,
Lose
and
neglect
the
creeping
hours
of
time
,
If
ever
you
have
looked
on
better
days
,
If
ever
been
where
bells
have
knolled
to
church
,
If
ever
sat
at
any
good
man’s
feast
,
If
ever
from
your
eyelids
wiped
a
tear
And
know
what
’tis
to
pity
and
be
pitied
,
Let
gentleness
my
strong
enforcement
be
,
In
the
which
hope
I
blush
and
hide
my
sword
.
All
the
world’s
a
stage
,
And
all
the
men
and
women
merely
players
.
They
have
their
exits
and
their
entrances
,
And
one
man
in
his
time
plays
many
parts
,
His
acts
being
seven
ages
.
At
first
the
infant
,
Mewling
and
puking
in
the
nurse’s
arms
.
Then
the
whining
schoolboy
with
his
satchel
And
shining
morning
face
,
creeping
like
snail
Unwillingly
to
school
.
And
then
the
lover
,
Sighing
like
furnace
,
with
a
woeful
ballad
Made
to
his
mistress’
eyebrow
.
Then
a
soldier
,
Full
of
strange
oaths
and
bearded
like
the
pard
,
Jealous
in
honor
,
sudden
and
quick
in
quarrel
,
Seeking
the
bubble
reputation
Even
in
the
cannon’s
mouth
.
And
then
the
justice
,
In
fair
round
belly
with
good
capon
lined
,
With
eyes
severe
and
beard
of
formal
cut
,
Full
of
wise
saws
and
modern
instances
;
And
so
he
plays
his
part
.
The
sixth
age
shifts
Into
the
lean
and
slippered
pantaloon
With
spectacles
on
nose
and
pouch
on
side
,
His
youthful
hose
,
well
saved
,
a
world
too
wide
For
his
shrunk
shank
,
and
his
big
manly
voice
,
Turning
again
toward
childish
treble
,
pipes
And
whistles
in
his
sound
.
Last
scene
of
all
,
That
ends
this
strange
eventful
history
,
Is
second
childishness
and
mere
oblivion
,
Sans
teeth
,
sans
eyes
,
sans
taste
,
sans
everything
.
Not
see
him
since
?
Sir
,
sir
,
that
cannot
be
.
But
were
I
not
the
better
part
made
mercy
,
I
should
not
seek
an
absent
argument
Of
my
revenge
,
thou
present
.
But
look
to
it
:
Find
out
thy
brother
wheresoe’er
he
is
.
Seek
him
with
candle
.
Bring
him
,
dead
or
living
,
Within
this
twelvemonth
,
or
turn
thou
no
more
To
seek
a
living
in
our
territory
.
Thy
lands
and
all
things
that
thou
dost
call
thine
,
Worth
seizure
,
do
we
seize
into
our
hands
Till
thou
canst
quit
thee
by
thy
brother’s
mouth
Of
what
we
think
against
thee
.
Hang
there
,
my
verse
,
in
witness
of
my
love
.
And
thou
,
thrice-crownèd
queen
of
night
,
survey
With
thy
chaste
eye
,
from
thy
pale
sphere
above
,
Thy
huntress’
name
that
my
full
life
doth
sway
.
O
Rosalind
,
these
trees
shall
be
my
books
,
And
in
their
barks
my
thoughts
I’ll
character
,
That
every
eye
which
in
this
forest
looks
Shall
see
thy
virtue
witnessed
everywhere
.
Run
,
run
,
Orlando
,
carve
on
every
tree
The
fair
,
the
chaste
,
and
unexpressive
she
.
Truly
,
shepherd
,
in
respect
of
itself
,
it
is
a
good
life
;
but
in
respect
that
it
is
a
shepherd’s
life
,
it
is
naught
.
In
respect
that
it
is
solitary
,
I
like
it
very
well
;
but
in
respect
that
it
is
private
,
it
is
a
very
vile
life
.
Now
in
respect
it
is
in
the
fields
,
it
pleaseth
me
well
;
but
in
respect
it
is
not
in
the
court
,
it
is
tedious
.
As
it
is
a
spare
life
,
look
you
,
it
fits
my
humor
well
;
but
as
there
is
no
more
plenty
in
it
,
it
goes
much
against
my
stomach
.
Hast
any
philosophy
in
thee
,
shepherd
?
I
was
seven
of
the
nine
days
out
of
the
wonder
before
you
came
,
for
look
here
what
I
found
on
a
palm
tree
.
I
was
never
so
berhymed
since
Pythagoras’
time
that
I
was
an
Irish
rat
,
which
I
can
hardly
remember
.
Alas
the
day
,
what
shall
I
do
with
my
doublet
and
hose
?
What
did
he
when
thou
saw’st
him
?
What
said
he
?
How
looked
he
?
Wherein
went
he
?
What
makes
he
here
?
Did
he
ask
for
me
?
Where
remains
he
?
How
parted
he
with
thee
?
And
when
shalt
thou
see
him
again
?
Answer
me
in
one
word
.
But
doth
he
know
that
I
am
in
this
forest
and
in
man’s
apparel
?
Looks
he
as
freshly
as
he
did
the
day
he
wrestled
?
He
is
drowned
in
the
brook
.
Look
but
in
,
and
you
shall
see
him
.
Sweet
Phoebe
,
do
not
scorn
me
.
Do
not
,
Phoebe
.
Say
that
you
love
me
not
,
but
say
not
so
In
bitterness
.
The
common
executioner
,
Whose
heart
th’
accustomed
sight
of
death
makes
hard
,
Falls
not
the
axe
upon
the
humbled
neck
But
first
begs
pardon
.
Will
you
sterner
be
Than
he
that
dies
and
lives
by
bloody
drops
?
And
why
,
I
pray
you
?
Who
might
be
your
mother
,
That
you
insult
,
exult
,
and
all
at
once
,
Over
the
wretched
?
What
though
you
have
no
beauty
—
As
,
by
my
faith
,
I
see
no
more
in
you
Than
without
candle
may
go
dark
to
bed
—
Must
you
be
therefore
proud
and
pitiless
?
Why
,
what
means
this
?
Why
do
you
look
on
me
?
I
see
no
more
in
you
than
in
the
ordinary
Of
nature’s
sale-work
.
—
’Od’s
my
little
life
,
I
think
she
means
to
tangle
my
eyes
,
too
.
—
No
,
faith
,
proud
mistress
,
hope
not
after
it
.
’Tis
not
your
inky
brows
,
your
black
silk
hair
,
Your
bugle
eyeballs
,
nor
your
cheek
of
cream
That
can
entame
my
spirits
to
your
worship
.
—
You
foolish
shepherd
,
wherefore
do
you
follow
her
,
Like
foggy
south
puffing
with
wind
and
rain
?
You
are
a
thousand
times
a
properer
man
Than
she
a
woman
.
’Tis
such
fools
as
you
That
makes
the
world
full
of
ill-favored
children
.
’Tis
not
her
glass
but
you
that
flatters
her
,
And
out
of
you
she
sees
herself
more
proper
Than
any
of
her
lineaments
can
show
her
.
—
But
,
mistress
,
know
yourself
.
Down
on
your
knees
And
thank
heaven
,
fasting
,
for
a
good
man’s
love
,
For
I
must
tell
you
friendly
in
your
ear
,
Sell
when
you
can
;
you
are
not
for
all
markets
.
Cry
the
man
mercy
,
love
him
,
take
his
offer
.
Foul
is
most
foul
,
being
foul
to
be
a
scoffer
.
—
So
take
her
to
thee
,
shepherd
.
Fare
you
well
.
He’s
fall’n
in
love
with
your
foulness
.
And
she’ll
fall
in
love
with
my
anger
.
If
it
be
so
,
as
fast
as
she
answers
thee
with
frowning
looks
,
I’ll
sauce
her
with
bitter
words
.
Why
look
you
so
upon
me
?
I
pray
you
,
do
not
fall
in
love
with
me
,
For
I
am
falser
than
vows
made
in
wine
.
Besides
,
I
like
you
not
.
If
you
will
know
my
house
,
’Tis
at
the
tuft
of
olives
,
here
hard
by
.
—
Will
you
go
,
sister
?
—
Shepherd
,
ply
her
hard
.
—
Come
,
sister
.
—
Shepherdess
,
look
on
him
better
,
And
be
not
proud
.
Though
all
the
world
could
see
,
None
could
be
so
abused
in
sight
as
he
.
—
Come
,
to
our
flock
.
Why
,
that
were
covetousness
.
Silvius
,
the
time
was
that
I
hated
thee
;
And
yet
it
is
not
that
I
bear
thee
love
;
,
But
since
that
thou
canst
talk
of
love
so
well
,
Thy
company
,
which
erst
was
irksome
to
me
,
I
will
endure
,
and
I’ll
employ
thee
too
.
But
do
not
look
for
further
recompense
Than
thine
own
gladness
that
thou
art
employed
.
So
holy
and
so
perfect
is
my
love
,
And
I
in
such
a
poverty
of
grace
,
That
I
shall
think
it
a
most
plenteous
crop
To
glean
the
broken
ears
after
the
man
That
the
main
harvest
reaps
.
Loose
now
and
then
A
scattered
smile
,
and
that
I’ll
live
upon
.
Farewell
,
Monsieur
Traveller
.
Look
you
lisp
and
wear
strange
suits
,
disable
all
the
benefits
of
your
own
country
,
be
out
of
love
with
your
nativity
,
and
almost
chide
God
for
making
you
that
countenance
you
are
,
or
I
will
scarce
think
you
have
swam
in
a
gondola
.
Why
,
how
now
,
Orlando
,
where
have
you
been
all
this
while
?
You
a
lover
?
An
you
serve
me
such
another
trick
,
never
come
in
my
sight
more
.
I
warrant
you
,
with
pure
love
and
troubled
brain
he
hath
ta’en
his
bow
and
arrows
and
is
gone
forth
to
sleep
.
Look
who
comes
here
.
Orlando
doth
commend
him
to
you
both
,
And
to
that
youth
he
calls
his
Rosalind
He
sends
this
bloody
napkin
.
Are
you
he
?
But
for
the
bloody
napkin
?
By
and
by
.
When
from
the
first
to
last
betwixt
us
two
Tears
our
recountments
had
most
kindly
bathed
—
As
how
I
came
into
that
desert
place
—
In
brief
,
he
led
me
to
the
gentle
duke
,
Who
gave
me
fresh
array
and
entertainment
,
Committing
me
unto
my
brother’s
love
;
Who
led
me
instantly
unto
his
cave
,
There
stripped
himself
,
and
here
upon
his
arm
The
lioness
had
torn
some
flesh
away
,
Which
all
this
while
had
bled
;
and
now
he
fainted
,
And
cried
in
fainting
upon
Rosalind
.
Brief
,
I
recovered
him
,
bound
up
his
wound
,
And
after
some
small
space
,
being
strong
at
heart
,
He
sent
me
hither
,
stranger
as
I
am
,
To
tell
this
story
,
that
you
might
excuse
His
broken
promise
,
and
to
give
this
napkin
Dyed
in
his
blood
unto
the
shepherd
youth
That
he
in
sport
doth
call
his
Rosalind
.
Many
will
swoon
when
they
do
look
on
blood
.
Look , he recovers .
Come
,
you
look
paler
and
paler
.
Pray
you
draw
homewards
.
—
Good
sir
,
go
with
us
.
You
have
my
consent
.
Let
your
wedding
be
tomorrow
.
Thither
will
I
invite
the
Duke
and
all
’s
contented
followers
.
Go
you
and
prepare
Aliena
,
for
,
look
you
,
here
comes
my
Rosalind
.
O
,
I
know
where
you
are
.
Nay
,
’tis
true
.
There
was
never
anything
so
sudden
but
the
fight
of
two
rams
,
and
Caesar’s
thrasonical
brag
of
I
came
,
saw
,
and
overcame
.
For
your
brother
and
my
sister
no
sooner
met
but
they
looked
,
no
sooner
looked
but
they
loved
,
no
sooner
loved
but
they
sighed
,
no
sooner
sighed
but
they
asked
one
another
the
reason
,
no
sooner
knew
the
reason
but
they
sought
the
remedy
;
and
in
these
degrees
have
they
made
a
pair
of
stairs
to
marriage
,
which
they
will
climb
incontinent
,
or
else
be
incontinent
before
marriage
.
They
are
in
the
very
wrath
of
love
,
and
they
will
together
.
Clubs
cannot
part
them
.
They
shall
be
married
tomorrow
,
and
I
will
bid
the
Duke
to
the
nuptial
.
But
O
,
how
bitter
a
thing
it
is
to
look
into
happiness
through
another
man’s
eyes
.
By
so
much
the
more
shall
I
tomorrow
be
at
the
height
of
heart-heaviness
by
how
much
I
shall
think
my
brother
happy
in
having
what
he
wishes
for
.
By
my
life
I
do
,
which
I
tender
dearly
,
though
I
say
I
am
a
magician
.
Therefore
put
you
in
your
best
array
,
bid
your
friends
;
for
if
you
will
be
married
tomorrow
,
you
shall
,
and
to
Rosalind
,
if
you
will
.
Look
,
here
comes
a
lover
of
mine
and
a
lover
of
hers
.
I
care
not
if
I
have
.
It
is
my
study
To
seem
despiteful
and
ungentle
to
you
.
You
are
there
followed
by
a
faithful
shepherd
.
Look
upon
him
,
love
him
;
he
worships
you
.
There
is
sure
another
flood
toward
,
and
these
couples
are
coming
to
the
ark
.
Here
comes
a
pair
of
very
strange
beasts
,
which
in
all
tongues
are
called
fools
.
God
’ild
you
,
sir
.
I
desire
you
of
the
like
.
I
press
in
here
,
sir
,
amongst
the
rest
of
the
country
copulatives
,
to
swear
and
to
forswear
,
according
as
marriage
binds
and
blood
breaks
.
A
poor
virgin
,
sir
,
an
ill-favored
thing
,
sir
,
but
mine
own
.
A
poor
humor
of
mine
,
sir
,
to
take
that
that
no
man
else
will
.
Rich
honesty
dwells
like
a
miser
,
sir
,
in
a
poor
house
,
as
your
pearl
in
your
foul
oyster
.
I
would
my
father
looked
but
with
my
eyes
.
Rather
your
eyes
must
with
his
judgment
look
.
Either
to
die
the
death
,
or
to
abjure
Forever
the
society
of
men
.
Therefore
,
fair
Hermia
,
question
your
desires
,
Know
of
your
youth
,
examine
well
your
blood
,
Whether
(
if
you
yield
not
to
your
father’s
choice
)
You
can
endure
the
livery
of
a
nun
,
For
aye
to
be
in
shady
cloister
mewed
,
To
live
a
barren
sister
all
your
life
,
Chanting
faint
hymns
to
the
cold
fruitless
moon
.
Thrice-blessèd
they
that
master
so
their
blood
To
undergo
such
maiden
pilgrimage
,
But
earthlier
happy
is
the
rose
distilled
Than
that
which
,
withering
on
the
virgin
thorn
,
Grows
,
lives
,
and
dies
in
single
blessedness
.
I
must
confess
that
I
have
heard
so
much
,
And
with
Demetrius
thought
to
have
spoke
thereof
;
But
,
being
overfull
of
self-affairs
,
My
mind
did
lose
it
.
—
But
,
Demetrius
,
come
,
And
come
,
Egeus
;
you
shall
go
with
me
.
I
have
some
private
schooling
for
you
both
.
—
For
you
,
fair
Hermia
,
look
you
arm
yourself
To
fit
your
fancies
to
your
father’s
will
,
Or
else
the
law
of
Athens
yields
you
up
(
Which
by
no
means
we
may
extenuate
)
To
death
or
to
a
vow
of
single
life
.
—
Come
,
my
Hippolyta
.
What
cheer
,
my
love
?
—
Demetrius
and
Egeus
,
go
along
.
I
must
employ
you
in
some
business
Against
our
nuptial
,
and
confer
with
you
Of
something
nearly
that
concerns
yourselves
.
Ay
me
!
For
aught
that
I
could
ever
read
,
Could
ever
hear
by
tale
or
history
,
The
course
of
true
love
never
did
run
smooth
.
But
either
it
was
different
in
blood
—
Keep
promise
,
love
.
Look
,
here
comes
Helena
.
Call
you
me
fair
?
That
fair
again
unsay
.
Demetrius
loves
your
fair
.
O
happy
fair
!
Your
eyes
are
lodestars
and
your
tongue’s
sweet
air
More
tunable
than
lark
to
shepherd’s
ear
When
wheat
is
green
,
when
hawthorn
buds
appear
.
Sickness
is
catching
.
O
,
were
favor
so
!
Yours
would
I
catch
,
fair
Hermia
,
ere
I
go
.
My
ear
should
catch
your
voice
,
my
eye
your
eye
;
My
tongue
should
catch
your
tongue’s
sweet
melody
.
Were
the
world
mine
,
Demetrius
being
bated
,
The
rest
I’d
give
to
be
to
you
translated
.
O
,
teach
me
how
you
look
and
with
what
art
You
sway
the
motion
of
Demetrius’
heart
!
How
happy
some
o’er
other
some
can
be
!
Through
Athens
I
am
thought
as
fair
as
she
.
But
what
of
that
?
Demetrius
thinks
not
so
.
He
will
not
know
what
all
but
he
do
know
.
And
,
as
he
errs
,
doting
on
Hermia’s
eyes
,
So
I
,
admiring
of
his
qualities
.
Things
base
and
vile
,
holding
no
quantity
,
Love
can
transpose
to
form
and
dignity
.
Love
looks
not
with
the
eyes
but
with
the
mind
;
And
therefore
is
winged
Cupid
painted
blind
.
Nor
hath
Love’s
mind
of
any
judgment
taste
.
Wings
,
and
no
eyes
,
figure
unheedy
haste
.
And
therefore
is
Love
said
to
be
a
child
Because
in
choice
he
is
so
oft
beguiled
.
As
waggish
boys
in
game
themselves
forswear
,
So
the
boy
Love
is
perjured
everywhere
.
For
,
ere
Demetrius
looked
on
Hermia’s
eyne
,
He
hailed
down
oaths
that
he
was
only
mine
;
And
when
this
hail
some
heat
from
Hermia
felt
,
So
he
dissolved
,
and
show’rs
of
oaths
did
melt
.
I
will
go
tell
him
of
fair
Hermia’s
flight
.
Then
to
the
wood
will
he
tomorrow
night
Pursue
her
.
And
,
for
this
intelligence
If
I
have
thanks
,
it
is
a
dear
expense
.
But
herein
mean
I
to
enrich
my
pain
,
To
have
his
sight
thither
and
back
again
.
That
will
ask
some
tears
in
the
true
performing
of
it
.
If
I
do
it
,
let
the
audience
look
to
their
eyes
.
I
will
move
storms
;
I
will
condole
in
some
measure
.
To
the
rest
.
—
Yet
my
chief
humor
is
for
a
tyrant
.
I
could
play
Ercles
rarely
,
or
a
part
to
tear
a
cat
in
,
to
make
all
split
:
The
raging
rocks
And
shivering
shocks
Shall
break
the
locks
Of
prison
gates
.
And
Phibbus’
car
Shall
shine
from
far
And
make
and
mar
The
foolish
Fates
.
This
was
lofty
.
Now
name
the
rest
of
the
players
.
This
is
Ercles’
vein
,
a
tyrant’s
vein
.
A
lover
is
more
condoling
.
Over
hill
,
over
dale
,
Thorough
bush
,
thorough
brier
,
Over
park
,
over
pale
,
Thorough
flood
,
thorough
fire
;
I
do
wander
everywhere
,
Swifter
than
the
moon’s
sphere
.
And
I
serve
the
Fairy
Queen
,
To
dew
her
orbs
upon
the
green
.
The
cowslips
tall
her
pensioners
be
;
In
their
gold
coats
spots
you
see
;
Those
be
rubies
,
fairy
favors
;
In
those
freckles
live
their
savors
.
I
must
go
seek
some
dewdrops
here
And
hang
a
pearl
in
every
cowslip’s
ear
.
Farewell
,
thou
lob
of
spirits
.
I’ll
be
gone
.
Our
queen
and
all
her
elves
come
here
anon
.
These
are
the
forgeries
of
jealousy
;
And
never
,
since
the
middle
summer’s
spring
,
Met
we
on
hill
,
in
dale
,
forest
,
or
mead
,
By
pavèd
fountain
or
by
rushy
brook
,
Or
in
the
beachèd
margent
of
the
sea
,
To
dance
our
ringlets
to
the
whistling
wind
,
But
with
thy
brawls
thou
hast
disturbed
our
sport
.
Therefore
the
winds
,
piping
to
us
in
vain
,
As
in
revenge
have
sucked
up
from
the
sea
Contagious
fogs
,
which
,
falling
in
the
land
,
Hath
every
pelting
river
made
so
proud
That
they
have
overborne
their
continents
.
The
ox
hath
therefore
stretched
his
yoke
in
vain
,
The
plowman
lost
his
sweat
,
and
the
green
corn
Hath
rotted
ere
his
youth
attained
a
beard
.
The
fold
stands
empty
in
the
drownèd
field
,
And
crows
are
fatted
with
the
murrain
flock
.
The
nine-men’s-morris
is
filled
up
with
mud
,
And
the
quaint
mazes
in
the
wanton
green
,
For
lack
of
tread
,
are
undistinguishable
.
The
human
mortals
want
their
winter
here
.
No
night
is
now
with
hymn
or
carol
blessed
.
Therefore
the
moon
,
the
governess
of
floods
,
Pale
in
her
anger
,
washes
all
the
air
,
That
rheumatic
diseases
do
abound
.
And
thorough
this
distemperature
we
see
The
seasons
alter
:
hoary-headed
frosts
Fall
in
the
fresh
lap
of
the
crimson
rose
,
And
on
old
Hiems’
thin
and
icy
crown
An
odorous
chaplet
of
sweet
summer
buds
Is
,
as
in
mockery
,
set
.
The
spring
,
the
summer
,
The
childing
autumn
,
angry
winter
,
change
Their
wonted
liveries
,
and
the
mazèd
world
By
their
increase
now
knows
not
which
is
which
.
And
this
same
progeny
of
evils
comes
From
our
debate
,
from
our
dissension
;
We
are
their
parents
and
original
.
Set
your
heart
at
rest
:
The
Fairyland
buys
not
the
child
of
me
.
His
mother
was
a
vot’ress
of
my
order
,
And
in
the
spicèd
Indian
air
by
night
Full
often
hath
she
gossiped
by
my
side
And
sat
with
me
on
Neptune’s
yellow
sands
,
Marking
th’
embarkèd
traders
on
the
flood
,
When
we
have
laughed
to
see
the
sails
conceive
And
grow
big-bellied
with
the
wanton
wind
;
Which
she
,
with
pretty
and
with
swimming
gait
,
Following
(
her
womb
then
rich
with
my
young
squire
)
,
Would
imitate
and
sail
upon
the
land
To
fetch
me
trifles
and
return
again
,
As
from
a
voyage
,
rich
with
merchandise
.
But
she
,
being
mortal
,
of
that
boy
did
die
,
And
for
her
sake
do
I
rear
up
her
boy
,
And
for
her
sake
I
will
not
part
with
him
.
That
very
time
I
saw
(
but
thou
couldst
not
)
,
Flying
between
the
cold
moon
and
the
Earth
earth
,
Cupid
all
armed
.
A
certain
aim
he
took
At
a
fair
vestal
thronèd
by
the
west
,
And
loosed
his
love-shaft
smartly
from
his
bow
As
it
should
pierce
a
hundred
thousand
hearts
.
But
I
might
see
young
Cupid’s
fiery
shaft
Quenched
in
the
chaste
beams
of
the
wat’ry
moon
,
And
the
imperial
vot’ress
passèd
on
In
maiden
meditation
,
fancy-free
.
Yet
marked
I
where
the
bolt
of
Cupid
fell
.
It
fell
upon
a
little
western
flower
,
Before
,
milk-white
,
now
purple
with
love’s
wound
,
And
maidens
call
it
love-in-idleness
.
Fetch
me
that
flower
;
the
herb
I
showed
thee
once
.
The
juice
of
it
on
sleeping
eyelids
laid
Will
make
or
man
or
woman
madly
dote
Upon
the
next
live
creature
that
it
sees
.
Fetch
me
this
herb
,
and
be
thou
here
again
Ere
the
leviathan
can
swim
a
league
.
Having
once
this
juice
,
I’ll
watch
Titania
when
she
is
asleep
And
drop
the
liquor
of
it
in
her
eyes
.
The
next
thing
then
she
,
waking
,
looks
upon
(
Be
it
on
lion
,
bear
,
or
wolf
,
or
bull
,
On
meddling
monkey
,
or
on
busy
ape
)
She
shall
pursue
it
with
the
soul
of
love
.
And
ere
I
take
this
charm
from
off
her
sight
(
As
I
can
take
it
with
another
herb
)
,
I’ll
make
her
render
up
her
page
to
me
.
But
who
comes
here
?
I
am
invisible
,
And
I
will
overhear
their
conference
.
Tempt
not
too
much
the
hatred
of
my
spirit
,
For
I
am
sick
when
I
do
look
on
thee
.
And
I
am
sick
when
I
look
not
on
you
.
Your
virtue
is
my
privilege
.
For
that
It
is
not
night
when
I
do
see
your
face
,
Therefore
I
think
I
am
not
in
the
night
.
Nor
doth
this
wood
lack
worlds
of
company
,
For
you
,
in
my
respect
,
are
all
the
world
.
Then
,
how
can
it
be
said
I
am
alone
When
all
the
world
is
here
to
look
on
me
?
I
pray
thee
give
it
me
.
I
know
a
bank
where
the
wild
thyme
blows
,
Where
oxlips
and
the
nodding
violet
grows
,
Quite
overcanopied
with
luscious
woodbine
,
With
sweet
muskroses
,
and
with
eglantine
.
There
sleeps
Titania
sometime
of
the
night
,
Lulled
in
these
flowers
with
dances
and
delight
.
And
there
the
snake
throws
her
enameled
skin
,
Weed
wide
enough
to
wrap
a
fairy
in
.
And
with
the
juice
of
this
I’ll
streak
her
eyes
And
make
her
full
of
hateful
fantasies
.
Take
thou
some
of
it
,
and
seek
through
this
grove
.
A
sweet
Athenian
lady
is
in
love
With
a
disdainful
youth
.
Anoint
his
eyes
,
But
do
it
when
the
next
thing
he
espies
May
be
the
lady
.
Thou
shalt
know
the
man
By
the
Athenian
garments
he
hath
on
.
Effect
it
with
some
care
,
that
he
may
prove
More
fond
on
her
than
she
upon
her
love
.
And
look
thou
meet
me
ere
the
first
cock
crow
.
Hence
,
away
!
Now
all
is
well
.
One
aloof
stand
sentinel
.
O
,
I
am
out
of
breath
in
this
fond
chase
.
The
more
my
prayer
,
the
lesser
is
my
grace
.
Happy
is
Hermia
,
wheresoe’er
she
lies
,
For
she
hath
blessèd
and
attractive
eyes
.
How
came
her
eyes
so
bright
?
Not
with
salt
tears
.
If
so
,
my
eyes
are
oftener
washed
than
hers
.
No
,
no
,
I
am
as
ugly
as
a
bear
,
For
beasts
that
meet
me
run
away
for
fear
.
Therefore
no
marvel
though
Demetrius
Do
as
a
monster
fly
my
presence
thus
.
What
wicked
and
dissembling
glass
of
mine
Made
me
compare
with
Hermia’s
sphery
eyne
?
But
who
is
here
?
Lysander
,
on
the
ground
!
Dead
or
asleep
?
I
see
no
blood
,
no
wound
.
—
Lysander
,
if
you
live
,
good
sir
,
awake
.
Content
with
Hermia
?
No
,
I
do
repent
The
tedious
minutes
I
with
her
have
spent
.
Not
Hermia
,
but
Helena
I
love
.
Who
will
not
change
a
raven
for
a
dove
?
The
will
of
man
is
by
his
reason
swayed
,
And
reason
says
you
are
the
worthier
maid
.
Things
growing
are
not
ripe
until
their
season
;
So
I
,
being
young
,
till
now
ripe
not
to
reason
.
And
touching
now
the
point
of
human
skill
,
Reason
becomes
the
marshal
to
my
will
And
leads
me
to
your
eyes
,
where
I
o’erlook
Love’s
stories
written
in
love’s
richest
book
.
Wherefore
was
I
to
this
keen
mockery
born
?
When
at
your
hands
did
I
deserve
this
scorn
?
Is
’t
not
enough
,
is
’t
not
enough
,
young
man
,
That
I
did
never
,
no
,
nor
never
can
Deserve
a
sweet
look
from
Demetrius’
eye
,
But
you
must
flout
my
insufficiency
?
Good
troth
,
you
do
me
wrong
,
good
sooth
,
you
do
,
In
such
disdainful
manner
me
to
woo
.
But
fare
you
well
.
Perforce
I
must
confess
I
thought
you
lord
of
more
true
gentleness
.
O
,
that
a
lady
of
one
man
refused
Should
of
another
therefore
be
abused
!
Help
me
,
Lysander
,
help
me
!
Do
thy
best
To
pluck
this
crawling
serpent
from
my
breast
.
Ay
me
,
for
pity
!
What
a
dream
was
here
!
Lysander
,
look
how
I
do
quake
with
fear
.
Methought
a
serpent
ate
my
heart
away
,
And
you
sat
smiling
at
his
cruel
prey
.
Lysander
!
What
,
removed
?
Lysander
,
lord
!
What
,
out
of
hearing
?
Gone
?
No
sound
,
no
word
?
Alack
,
where
are
you
?
Speak
,
an
if
you
hear
.
Speak
,
of
all
loves
!
I
swoon
almost
with
fear
.
—
No
?
Then
I
well
perceive
you
are
not
nigh
.
Either
death
or
you
I’ll
find
immediately
.
Masters
,
you
ought
to
consider
with
yourself
,
to
bring
in
(
God
shield
us
!
)
a
lion
among
ladies
is
a
most
dreadful
thing
.
For
there
is
not
a
more
fearful
wildfowl
than
your
lion
living
,
and
we
ought
to
look
to
’t
.
A
calendar
,
a
calendar
!
Look
in
the
almanac
.
Find
out
moonshine
,
find
out
moonshine
.
Come
,
wait
upon
him
.
Lead
him
to
my
bower
.
The
moon
,
methinks
,
looks
with
a
wat’ry
eye
,
And
when
she
weeps
,
weeps
every
little
flower
,
Lamenting
some
enforcèd
chastity
.
Tie
up
my
lover’s
tongue
.
Bring
him
silently
.
Now
I
but
chide
,
but
I
should
use
thee
worse
,
For
thou
,
I
fear
,
hast
given
me
cause
to
curse
.
If
thou
hast
slain
Lysander
in
his
sleep
,
Being
o’er
shoes
in
blood
,
plunge
in
the
deep
And
kill
me
too
.
The
sun
was
not
so
true
unto
the
day
As
he
to
me
.
Would
he
have
stolen
away
From
sleeping
Hermia
?
I’ll
believe
as
soon
This
whole
Earth
earth
may
be
bored
,
and
that
the
moon
May
through
the
center
creep
and
so
displease
Her
brother’s
noontide
with
th’
Antipodes
.
It
cannot
be
but
thou
hast
murdered
him
.
So
should
a
murderer
look
,
so
dead
,
so
grim
.
So
should
the
murdered
look
,
and
so
should
I
,
Pierced
through
the
heart
with
your
stern
cruelty
.
Yet
you
,
the
murderer
,
look
as
bright
,
as
clear
,
As
yonder
Venus
in
her
glimmering
sphere
.
Out
,
dog
!
Out
,
cur
!
Thou
driv’st
me
past
the
bounds
Of
maiden’s
patience
.
Hast
thou
slain
him
,
then
?
Henceforth
be
never
numbered
among
men
.
O
,
once
tell
true
!
Tell
true
,
even
for
my
sake
!
Durst
thou
have
looked
upon
him
,
being
awake
?
And
hast
thou
killed
him
sleeping
?
O
brave
touch
!
Could
not
a
worm
,
an
adder
,
do
so
much
?
An
adder
did
it
,
for
with
doubler
tongue
Than
thine
,
thou
serpent
,
never
adder
stung
.
You
spend
your
passion
on
a
misprised
mood
.
I
am
not
guilty
of
Lysander’s
blood
,
Nor
is
he
dead
,
for
aught
that
I
can
tell
.
About
the
wood
go
swifter
than
the
wind
,
And
Helena
of
Athens
look
thou
find
.
All
fancy-sick
she
is
and
pale
of
cheer
With
sighs
of
love
that
costs
the
fresh
blood
dear
.
By
some
illusion
see
thou
bring
her
here
.
I’ll
charm
his
eyes
against
she
do
appear
.
I
go
,
I
go
,
look
how
I
go
,
Swifter
than
arrow
from
the
Tartar’s
bow
.
Why
should
you
think
that
I
should
woo
in
scorn
?
Scorn
and
derision
never
come
in
tears
.
Look
when
I
vow
,
I
weep
;
and
vows
so
born
,
In
their
nativity
all
truth
appears
.
How
can
these
things
in
me
seem
scorn
to
you
,
Bearing
the
badge
of
faith
to
prove
them
true
?
Disparage
not
the
faith
thou
dost
not
know
,
Lest
to
thy
peril
thou
aby
it
dear
.
Look
where
thy
love
comes
.
Yonder
is
thy
dear
.
Ay
,
do
.
Persever
,
counterfeit
sad
looks
,
Make
mouths
upon
me
when
I
turn
my
back
,
Wink
each
at
other
,
hold
the
sweet
jest
up
.
This
sport
,
well
carried
,
shall
be
chronicled
.
If
you
have
any
pity
,
grace
,
or
manners
,
You
would
not
make
me
such
an
argument
.
But
fare
you
well
.
’Tis
partly
my
own
fault
,
Which
death
or
absence
soon
shall
remedy
.
No
,
no
.
He’ll
Seem
to
break
loose
.
Take
on
as
you
would
follow
,
But
yet
come
not
.
You
are
a
tame
man
,
go
!
Hang
off
,
thou
cat
,
thou
burr
!
Vile
thing
,
let
loose
,
Or
I
will
shake
thee
from
me
like
a
serpent
.
Thou
seest
these
lovers
seek
a
place
to
fight
.
Hie
,
therefore
,
Robin
,
overcast
the
night
;
The
starry
welkin
cover
thou
anon
With
drooping
fog
as
black
as
Acheron
,
And
lead
these
testy
rivals
so
astray
As
one
come
not
within
another’s
way
.
Like
to
Lysander
sometime
frame
thy
tongue
;
Then
stir
Demetrius
up
with
bitter
wrong
.
And
sometime
rail
thou
like
Demetrius
.
And
from
each
other
look
thou
lead
them
thus
,
Till
o’er
their
brows
death-counterfeiting
sleep
With
leaden
legs
and
batty
wings
doth
creep
.
Then
crush
this
herb
into
Lysander’s
eye
,
Whose
liquor
hath
this
virtuous
property
,
To
take
from
thence
all
error
with
his
might
And
make
his
eyeballs
roll
with
wonted
sight
.
When
they
next
wake
,
all
this
derision
Shall
seem
a
dream
and
fruitless
vision
.
And
back
to
Athens
shall
the
lovers
wend
,
With
league
whose
date
till
death
shall
never
end
.
Whiles
I
in
this
affair
do
thee
employ
,
I’ll
to
my
queen
and
beg
her
Indian
boy
;
And
then
I
will
her
charmèd
eye
release
From
monster’s
view
,
and
all
things
shall
be
peace
.
My
fairy
lord
,
this
must
be
done
with
haste
,
For
night’s
swift
dragons
cut
the
clouds
full
fast
,
And
yonder
shines
Aurora’s
harbinger
,
At
whose
approach
,
ghosts
wand’ring
here
and
there
Troop
home
to
churchyards
.
Damnèd
spirits
all
,
That
in
crossways
and
floods
have
burial
,
Already
to
their
wormy
beds
are
gone
.
For
fear
lest
day
should
look
their
shames
upon
,
They
willfully
themselves
exile
from
light
And
must
for
aye
consort
with
black-browed
night
.
Thou
coward
,
art
thou
bragging
to
the
stars
,
Telling
the
bushes
that
thou
look’st
for
wars
,
And
wilt
not
come
?
Come
,
recreant
!
Come
,
thou
child
!
I’ll
whip
thee
with
a
rod
.
He
is
defiled
That
draws
a
sword
on
thee
.
Abide
me
,
if
thou
dar’st
,
for
well
I
wot
Thou
runn’st
before
me
,
shifting
every
place
,
And
dar’st
not
stand
nor
look
me
in
the
face
.
Where
art
thou
now
?
Nay
,
then
,
thou
mock’st
me
.
Thou
shalt
buy
this
dear
If
ever
I
thy
face
by
daylight
see
.
Now
go
thy
way
.
Faintness
constraineth
me
To
measure
out
my
length
on
this
cold
bed
.
By
day’s
approach
look
to
be
visited
.
Not
a
word
of
me
.
All
that
I
will
tell
you
is
that
the
Duke
hath
dined
.
Get
your
apparel
together
,
good
strings
to
your
beards
,
new
ribbons
to
your
pumps
.
Meet
presently
at
the
palace
.
Every
man
look
o’er
his
part
.
For
the
short
and
the
long
is
,
our
play
is
preferred
.
In
any
case
,
let
Thisbe
have
clean
linen
,
and
let
not
him
that
plays
the
lion
pare
his
nails
,
for
they
shall
hang
out
for
the
lion’s
claws
.
And
,
most
dear
actors
,
eat
no
onions
nor
garlic
,
for
we
are
to
utter
sweet
breath
,
and
I
do
not
doubt
but
to
hear
them
say
it
is
a
sweet
comedy
.
No
more
words
.
Away
!
Go
,
away
!
The
kinder
we
,
to
give
them
thanks
for
nothing
.
Our
sport
shall
be
to
take
what
they
mistake
;
And
what
poor
duty
cannot
do
,
noble
respect
Takes
it
in
might
,
not
merit
.
Where
I
have
come
,
great
clerks
have
purposèd
To
greet
me
with
premeditated
welcomes
,
Where
I
have
seen
them
shiver
and
look
pale
,
Make
periods
in
the
midst
of
sentences
,
Throttle
their
practiced
accent
in
their
fears
,
And
in
conclusion
dumbly
have
broke
off
,
Not
paying
me
a
welcome
.
Trust
me
,
sweet
,
Out
of
this
silence
yet
I
picked
a
welcome
,
And
in
the
modesty
of
fearful
duty
,
I
read
as
much
as
from
the
rattling
tongue
Of
saucy
and
audacious
eloquence
.
Love
,
therefore
,
and
tongue-tied
simplicity
In
least
speak
most
,
to
my
capacity
.
Gentles
,
perchance
you
wonder
at
this
show
.
But
wonder
on
,
till
truth
make
all
things
plain
.
This
man
is
Pyramus
,
if
you
would
know
.
This
beauteous
lady
Thisbe
is
certain
.
This
man
with
lime
and
roughcast
doth
present
Wall
,
that
vile
wall
which
did
these
lovers
sunder
;
And
through
Wall’s
chink
,
poor
souls
,
they
are
content
To
whisper
,
at
the
which
let
no
man
wonder
.
This
man
,
with
lantern
,
dog
,
and
bush
of
thorn
,
Presenteth
Moonshine
,
for
,
if
you
will
know
,
By
moonshine
did
these
lovers
think
no
scorn
To
meet
at
Ninus’
tomb
,
there
,
there
to
woo
.
This
grisly
beast
(
which
Lion
hight
by
name
)
The
trusty
Thisbe
coming
first
by
night
Did
scare
away
,
or
rather
did
affright
;
And
,
as
she
fled
,
her
mantle
she
did
fall
,
Which
Lion
vile
with
bloody
mouth
did
stain
.
Anon
comes
Pyramus
,
sweet
youth
and
tall
,
And
finds
his
trusty
Thisbe’s
mantle
slain
.
Whereat
,
with
blade
,
with
bloody
blameful
blade
,
He
bravely
broached
his
boiling
bloody
breast
.
And
Thisbe
,
tarrying
in
mulberry
shade
,
His
dagger
drew
,
and
died
.
For
all
the
rest
,
Let
Lion
,
Moonshine
,
Wall
,
and
lovers
twain
At
large
discourse
,
while
here
they
do
remain
.
O
grim-looked
night
!
O
night
with
hue
so
black
!
O
night
,
which
ever
art
when
day
is
not
!
O
night
!
O
night
!
Alack
,
alack
,
alack
!
I
fear
my
Thisbe’s
promise
is
forgot
.
And
thou
,
O
wall
,
O
sweet
,
O
lovely
wall
,
That
stand’st
between
her
father’s
ground
and
mine
,
Thou
wall
,
O
wall
,
O
sweet
and
lovely
wall
,
Show
me
thy
chink
to
blink
through
with
mine
eyne
.
Thanks
,
courteous
wall
.
Jove
shield
thee
well
for
this
.
But
what
see
I
?
No
Thisbe
do
I
see
.
O
wicked
wall
,
through
whom
I
see
no
bliss
,
Cursed
be
thy
stones
for
thus
deceiving
me
!
You
ladies
,
you
whose
gentle
hearts
do
fear
The
smallest
monstrous
mouse
that
creeps
on
floor
,
May
now
perchance
both
quake
and
tremble
here
,
When
lion
rough
in
wildest
rage
doth
roar
.
Then
know
that
I
,
as
Snug
the
joiner
,
am
A
lion
fell
,
nor
else
no
lion’s
dam
;
For
if
I
should
as
lion
come
in
strife
Into
this
place
,
’twere
pity
on
my
life
.
Sweet
Moon
,
I
thank
thee
for
thy
sunny
beams
.
I
thank
thee
,
Moon
,
for
shining
now
so
bright
,
For
by
thy
gracious
,
golden
,
glittering
gleams
,
I
trust
to
take
of
truest
Thisbe
sight
.
—
But
stay
!
O
spite
!
But
mark
,
poor
knight
,
What
dreadful
dole
is
here
!
Eyes
,
do
you
see
!
How
can
it
be
!
O
dainty
duck
!
O
dear
!
Thy
mantle
good
—
What
,
stained
with
blood
?
Approach
,
ye
Furies
fell
!
O
Fates
,
come
,
come
,
Cut
thread
and
thrum
,
Quail
,
crush
,
conclude
,
and
quell
!
This
passion
,
and
the
death
of
a
dear
friend
,
would
go
near
to
make
a
man
look
sad
.
O
,
wherefore
,
Nature
,
didst
thou
lions
frame
,
Since
lion
vile
hath
here
deflowered
my
dear
,
Which
is
—
no
,
no
—
which
was
the
fairest
dame
That
lived
,
that
loved
,
that
liked
,
that
looked
with
cheer
?
Come
,
tears
,
confound
!
Out
,
sword
,
and
wound
The
pap
of
Pyramus
;
Ay
,
that
left
pap
,
Where
heart
doth
hop
.
Thus
die
I
,
thus
,
thus
,
thus
.
Now
am
I
dead
;
Now
am
I
fled
;
My
soul
is
in
the
sky
.
Tongue
,
lose
thy
light
!
Moon
,
take
thy
flight
!
Now
die
,
die
,
die
,
die
,
die
.
Sir
,
I
shall
tell
you
.
With
a
kind
of
smile
,
Which
ne’er
came
from
the
lungs
,
but
even
thus
—
For
,
look
you
,
I
may
make
the
belly
smile
As
well
as
speak
—
it
tauntingly
replied
To
th’
discontented
members
,
the
mutinous
parts
That
envied
his
receipt
;
even
so
most
fitly
As
you
malign
our
senators
for
that
They
are
not
such
as
you
.
Note
me
this
,
good
friend
;
Your
most
grave
belly
was
deliberate
,
Not
rash
like
his
accusers
,
and
thus
answered
:
True
is
it
,
my
incorporate
friends
,
quoth
he
,
That
I
receive
the
general
food
at
first
Which
you
do
live
upon
;
and
fit
it
is
,
Because
I
am
the
storehouse
and
the
shop
Of
the
whole
body
.
But
,
if
you
do
remember
,
I
send
it
through
the
rivers
of
your
blood
Even
to
the
court
,
the
heart
,
to
th’
seat
o’
th’
brain
;
And
,
through
the
cranks
and
offices
of
man
,
The
strongest
nerves
and
small
inferior
veins
From
me
receive
that
natural
competency
Whereby
they
live
.
And
though
that
all
at
once
,
You
,
my
good
friends
—
this
says
the
belly
,
mark
me
—
For
that
,
being
one
o’
th’
lowest
,
basest
,
poorest
,
Of
this
most
wise
rebellion
,
thou
goest
foremost
.
Thou
rascal
,
that
art
worst
in
blood
to
run
,
Lead’st
first
to
win
some
vantage
.
But
make
you
ready
your
stiff
bats
and
clubs
.
Rome
and
her
rats
are
at
the
point
of
battle
;
The
one
side
must
have
bale
.
Hail
,
noble
Martius
.
They
are
dissolved
.
Hang
’em
!
They
said
they
were
an-hungry
,
sighed
forth
proverbs
That
hunger
broke
stone
walls
,
that
dogs
must
eat
,
That
meat
was
made
for
mouths
,
that
the
gods
sent
not
Corn
for
the
rich
men
only
.
With
these
shreds
They
vented
their
complainings
,
which
being
answered
And
a
petition
granted
them
—
a
strange
one
,
To
break
the
heart
of
generosity
And
make
bold
power
look
pale
—
they
threw
their
caps
As
they
would
hang
them
on
the
horns
o’
th’
moon
,
Shouting
their
emulation
.
Indeed
you
shall
not
.
Methinks
I
hear
hither
your
husband’s
drum
,
See
him
pluck
Aufidius
down
by
th’
hair
;
As
children
from
a
bear
,
the
Volsces
shunning
him
.
Methinks
I
see
him
stamp
thus
and
call
thus
:
Come
on
,
you
cowards
!
You
were
got
in
fear
,
Though
you
were
born
in
Rome
.
His
bloody
brow
With
his
mailed
hand
then
wiping
,
forth
he
goes
Like
to
a
harvestman
that’s
tasked
to
mow
Or
all
or
lose
his
hire
.
His
bloody
brow
?
O
Jupiter
,
no
blood
!
Away
,
you
fool
!
It
more
becomes
a
man
Than
gilt
his
trophy
.
The
breasts
of
Hecuba
,
When
she
did
suckle
Hector
,
looked
not
lovelier
Than
Hector’s
forehead
when
it
spit
forth
blood
At
Grecian
sword
,
contemning
.
—
Tell
Valeria
We
are
fit
to
bid
her
welcome
.
He
had
rather
see
the
swords
and
hear
a
drum
than
look
upon
his
schoolmaster
.
O’
my
word
,
the
father’s
son
!
I’ll
swear
’tis
a
very
pretty
boy
.
O’
my
troth
,
I
looked
upon
him
o’
Wednesday
half
an
hour
together
.
H’as
such
a
confirmed
countenance
.
I
saw
him
run
after
a
gilded
butterfly
,
and
when
he
caught
it
,
he
let
it
go
again
,
and
after
it
again
,
and
over
and
over
he
comes
,
and
up
again
,
catched
it
again
.
Or
whether
his
fall
enraged
him
or
how
’twas
,
he
did
so
set
his
teeth
and
tear
it
.
O
,
I
warrant
how
he
mammocked
it
!
All
the
contagion
of
the
south
light
on
you
,
You
shames
of
Rome
!
You
herd
of
—
Boils
and
plagues
Plaster
you
o’er
,
that
you
may
be
abhorred
Farther
than
seen
,
and
one
infect
another
Against
the
wind
a
mile
!
You
souls
of
geese
,
That
bear
the
shapes
of
men
,
how
have
you
run
From
slaves
that
apes
would
beat
!
Pluto
and
hell
!
All
hurt
behind
.
Backs
red
,
and
faces
pale
With
flight
and
agued
fear
!
Mend
,
and
charge
home
,
Or
,
by
the
fires
of
heaven
,
I’ll
leave
the
foe
And
make
my
wars
on
you
.
Look
to
’t
.
Come
on
!
If
you’ll
stand
fast
,
we’ll
beat
them
to
their
wives
,
As
they
us
to
our
trenches
.
Follow
’s
!
So
,
now
the
gates
are
ope
.
Now
prove
good
seconds
!
’Tis
for
the
followers
fortune
widens
them
,
Not
for
the
fliers
.
Mark
me
,
and
do
the
like
.
O
,
noble
fellow
,
Who
sensibly
outdares
his
senseless
sword
,
And
when
it
bows
,
stand’st
up
!
Thou
art
left
,
Martius
.
A
carbuncle
entire
,
as
big
as
thou
art
,
Were
not
so
rich
a
jewel
.
Thou
wast
a
soldier
Even
to
Cato’s
wish
,
not
fierce
and
terrible
Only
in
strokes
,
but
with
thy
grim
looks
and
The
thunderlike
percussion
of
thy
sounds
Thou
mad’st
thine
enemies
shake
,
as
if
the
world
Were
feverous
and
did
tremble
.
Look , sir .
Sir
,
praise
me
not
.
My
work
hath
yet
not
warmed
me
.
Fare
you
well
.
The
blood
I
drop
is
rather
physical
Than
dangerous
to
me
.
To
Aufidius
thus
I
will
appear
and
fight
.
Ay
,
if
you
come
not
in
the
blood
of
others
,
But
mantled
in
your
own
.
I
do
beseech
you
,
By
all
the
battles
wherein
we
have
fought
,
By
th’
blood
we
have
shed
together
,
by
th’
vows
we
have
made
To
endure
friends
,
that
you
directly
set
me
Against
Aufidius
and
his
Antiates
,
And
that
you
not
delay
the
present
,
but
,
Filling
the
air
with
swords
advanced
and
darts
,
We
prove
this
very
hour
.
Within
these
three
hours
,
Tullus
,
Alone
I
fought
in
your
Corioles’
walls
And
made
what
work
I
pleased
.
’Tis
not
my
blood
Wherein
thou
seest
me
masked
.
For
thy
revenge
,
Wrench
up
thy
power
to
th’
highest
.
Pray
now
,
no
more
.
My
mother
,
Who
has
a
charter
to
extol
her
blood
,
When
she
does
praise
me
grieves
me
.
I
have
done
As
you
have
done
—
that’s
what
I
can
;
Induced
as
you
have
been
—
that’s
for
my
country
.
He
that
has
but
effected
his
good
will
Hath
overta’en
mine
act
.
Go
we
to
our
tent
.
The
blood
upon
your
visage
dries
;
’tis
time
It
should
be
looked
to
.
Come
.
You
know
neither
me
,
yourselves
,
nor
anything
.
You
are
ambitious
for
poor
knaves’
caps
and
legs
.
You
wear
out
a
good
wholesome
forenoon
in
hearing
a
cause
between
an
orange-wife
and
a
faucet-seller
,
and
then
rejourn
the
controversy
of
threepence
to
a
second
day
of
audience
.
When
you
are
hearing
a
matter
between
party
and
party
,
if
you
chance
to
be
pinched
with
the
colic
,
you
make
faces
like
mummers
,
set
up
the
bloody
flag
against
all
patience
,
and
,
in
roaring
for
a
chamber
pot
,
dismiss
the
controversy
bleeding
,
the
more
entangled
by
your
hearing
.
All
the
peace
you
make
in
their
cause
is
calling
both
the
parties
knaves
.
You
are
a
pair
of
strange
ones
.
Look
,
here’s
a
letter
from
him
.
The
state
hath
another
,
his
wife
another
,
and
I
think
there’s
one
at
home
for
you
.
Look , sir , your mother .
I
shall
lack
voice
.
The
deeds
of
Coriolanus
Should
not
be
uttered
feebly
.
It
is
held
That
valor
is
the
chiefest
virtue
and
Most
dignifies
the
haver
;
if
it
be
,
The
man
I
speak
of
cannot
in
the
world
Be
singly
counterpoised
.
At
sixteen
years
,
When
Tarquin
made
a
head
for
Rome
,
he
fought
Beyond
the
mark
of
others
.
Our
then
dictator
,
Whom
with
all
praise
I
point
at
,
saw
him
fight
When
with
his
Amazonian
chin
he
drove
The
bristled
lips
before
him
.
He
bestrid
An
o’erpressed
Roman
and
i’
th’
Consul’s
view
Slew
three
opposers
.
Tarquin’s
self
he
met
And
struck
him
on
his
knee
.
In
that
day’s
feats
,
When
he
might
act
the
woman
in
the
scene
,
He
proved
best
man
i’
th’
field
and
for
his
meed
Was
brow-bound
with
the
oak
.
His
pupil
age
Man-entered
thus
,
he
waxèd
like
a
sea
,
And
in
the
brunt
of
seventeen
battles
since
He
lurched
all
swords
of
the
garland
.
For
this
last
,
Before
and
in
Corioles
,
let
me
say
,
I
cannot
speak
him
home
.
He
stopped
the
flyers
And
by
his
rare
example
made
the
coward
Turn
terror
into
sport
.
As
weeds
before
A
vessel
under
sail
,
so
men
obeyed
And
fell
below
his
stem
.
His
sword
,
Death’s
stamp
,
Where
it
did
mark
,
it
took
;
from
face
to
foot
He
was
a
thing
of
blood
,
whose
every
motion
Was
timed
with
dying
cries
.
Alone
he
entered
The
mortal
gate
o’
th’
city
,
which
he
painted
With
shunless
destiny
;
aidless
came
off
And
with
a
sudden
reinforcement
struck
Corioles
like
a
planet
.
Now
all’s
his
,
When
by
and
by
the
din
of
war
gan
pierce
His
ready
sense
;
then
straight
his
doubled
spirit
Requickened
what
in
flesh
was
fatigate
,
And
to
the
battle
came
he
,
where
he
did
Run
reeking
o’er
the
lives
of
men
as
if
’Twere
a
perpetual
spoil
;
and
till
we
called
Both
field
and
city
ours
,
he
never
stood
To
ease
his
breast
with
panting
.
Our
spoils
he
kicked
at
And
looked
upon
things
precious
as
they
were
The
common
muck
of
the
world
.
He
covets
less
Than
misery
itself
would
give
,
rewards
His
deeds
with
doing
them
,
and
is
content
To
spend
the
time
to
end
it
.
What
must
I
say
?
I
pray
,
sir
?
—
plague
upon
’t
!
I
cannot
bring
My
tongue
to
such
a
pace
.
Look
,
sir
,
my
wounds
!
I
got
them
in
my
country’s
service
when
Some
certain
of
your
brethren
roared
and
ran
From
th’
noise
of
our
own
drums
.
Fare
you
well
.
He
has
it
now
;
and
by
his
looks
,
methinks
,
’Tis
warm
at
’s
heart
.
How
?
No
more
?
As
for
my
country
I
have
shed
my
blood
,
Not
fearing
outward
force
,
so
shall
my
lungs
Coin
words
till
their
decay
against
those
measles
Which
we
disdain
should
tetter
us
,
yet
sought
The
very
way
to
catch
them
.
O
,
he’s
a
limb
that
has
but
a
disease
—
Mortal
to
cut
it
off
;
to
cure
it
easy
.
What
has
he
done
to
Rome
that’s
worthy
death
?
Killing
our
enemies
,
the
blood
he
hath
lost
—
Which
I
dare
vouch
is
more
than
that
he
hath
By
many
an
ounce
—
he
dropped
it
for
his
country
;
And
what
is
left
,
to
lose
it
by
his
country
Were
to
us
all
that
do
’t
and
suffer
it
A
brand
to
th’
end
o’
th’
world
.
Noble
tribunes
,
It
is
the
humane
way
:
the
other
course
Will
prove
too
bloody
,
and
the
end
of
it
Unknown
to
the
beginning
.
Because
that
now
it
lies
you
on
to
speak
To
th’
people
,
not
by
your
own
instruction
,
Nor
by
th’
matter
which
your
heart
prompts
you
,
But
with
such
words
that
are
but
roted
in
Your
tongue
,
though
but
bastards
and
syllables
Of
no
allowance
to
your
bosom’s
truth
.
Now
,
this
no
more
dishonors
you
at
all
Than
to
take
in
a
town
with
gentle
words
,
Which
else
would
put
you
to
your
fortune
and
The
hazard
of
much
blood
.
I
would
dissemble
with
my
nature
where
My
fortunes
and
my
friends
at
stake
required
I
should
do
so
in
honor
.
I
am
in
this
Your
wife
,
your
son
,
these
senators
,
the
nobles
;
And
you
will
rather
show
our
general
louts
How
you
can
frown
than
spend
a
fawn
upon
’em
For
the
inheritance
of
their
loves
and
safeguard
Of
what
that
want
might
ruin
.
Pray
be
content
.
Mother
,
I
am
going
to
the
marketplace
.
Chide
me
no
more
.
I’ll
mountebank
their
loves
,
Cog
their
hearts
from
them
,
and
come
home
beloved
Of
all
the
trades
in
Rome
.
Look
,
I
am
going
.
Commend
me
to
my
wife
.
I’ll
return
consul
,
Or
never
trust
to
what
my
tongue
can
do
I’
th’
way
of
flattery
further
.
Go
about
it
.
Put
him
to
choler
straight
.
He
hath
been
used
Ever
to
conquer
and
to
have
his
worth
Of
contradiction
.
Being
once
chafed
,
he
cannot
Be
reined
again
to
temperance
;
then
he
speaks
What’s
in
his
heart
,
and
that
is
there
which
looks
With
us
to
break
his
neck
.
A
strange
one
as
ever
I
looked
on
.
I
cannot
get
him
out
o’
th’
house
.
Prithee
,
call
my
master
to
him
.
My
name
is
Caius
Martius
,
who
hath
done
To
thee
particularly
and
to
all
the
Volsces
Great
hurt
and
mischief
;
thereto
witness
may
My
surname
Coriolanus
.
The
painful
service
,
The
extreme
dangers
,
and
the
drops
of
blood
Shed
for
my
thankless
country
are
requited
But
with
that
surname
,
a
good
memory
And
witness
of
the
malice
and
displeasure
Which
thou
shouldst
bear
me
.
Only
that
name
remains
.
The
cruelty
and
envy
of
the
people
,
Permitted
by
our
dastard
nobles
,
who
Have
all
forsook
me
,
hath
devoured
the
rest
,
And
suffered
me
by
th’
voice
of
slaves
to
be
Whooped
out
of
Rome
.
Now
this
extremity
Hath
brought
me
to
thy
hearth
,
not
out
of
hope
—
Mistake
me
not
—
to
save
my
life
;
for
if
I
had
feared
death
,
of
all
the
men
i’
th’
world
I
would
have
’voided
thee
,
but
in
mere
spite
,
To
be
full
quit
of
those
my
banishers
,
Stand
I
before
thee
here
.
Then
if
thou
hast
A
heart
of
wreak
in
thee
,
that
wilt
revenge
Thine
own
particular
wrongs
and
stop
those
maims
Of
shame
seen
through
thy
country
,
speed
thee
straight
And
make
my
misery
serve
thy
turn
.
So
use
it
That
my
revengeful
services
may
prove
As
benefits
to
thee
,
for
I
will
fight
Against
my
cankered
country
with
the
spleen
Of
all
the
under
fiends
.
But
if
so
be
Thou
dar’st
not
this
,
and
that
to
prove
more
fortunes
Thou
’rt
tired
,
then
,
in
a
word
,
I
also
am
Longer
to
live
most
weary
,
and
present
My
throat
to
thee
and
to
thy
ancient
malice
,
Which
not
to
cut
would
show
thee
but
a
fool
,
Since
I
have
ever
followed
thee
with
hate
,
Drawn
tuns
of
blood
out
of
thy
country’s
breast
,
And
cannot
live
but
to
thy
shame
,
unless
It
be
to
do
thee
service
.
O
Martius
,
Martius
,
Each
word
thou
hast
spoke
hath
weeded
from
my
heart
A
root
of
ancient
envy
.
If
Jupiter
Should
from
yond
cloud
speak
divine
things
And
say
’tis
true
,
I’d
not
believe
them
more
Than
thee
,
all-noble
Martius
.
Let
me
twine
Mine
arms
about
that
body
,
whereagainst
My
grainèd
ash
an
hundred
times
hath
broke
And
scarred
the
moon
with
splinters
.
Here
I
clip
The
anvil
of
my
sword
and
do
contest
As
hotly
and
as
nobly
with
thy
love
As
ever
in
ambitious
strength
I
did
Contend
against
thy
valor
.
Know
thou
first
,
I
loved
the
maid
I
married
;
never
man
Sighed
truer
breath
.
But
that
I
see
thee
here
,
Thou
noble
thing
,
more
dances
my
rapt
heart
Than
when
I
first
my
wedded
mistress
saw
Bestride
my
threshold
.
Why
,
thou
Mars
,
I
tell
thee
We
have
a
power
on
foot
,
and
I
had
purpose
Once
more
to
hew
thy
target
from
thy
brawn
Or
lose
mine
arm
for
’t
.
Thou
hast
beat
me
out
Twelve
several
times
,
and
I
have
nightly
since
Dreamt
of
encounters
’twixt
thyself
and
me
;
We
have
been
down
together
in
my
sleep
,
Unbuckling
helms
,
fisting
each
other’s
throat
,
And
waked
half
dead
with
nothing
.
Worthy
Martius
,
Had
we
no
other
quarrel
else
to
Rome
but
that
Thou
art
thence
banished
,
we
would
muster
all
From
twelve
to
seventy
and
,
pouring
war
Into
the
bowels
of
ungrateful
Rome
,
Like
a
bold
flood
o’erbear
’t
.
O
,
come
,
go
in
,
And
take
our
friendly
senators
by
th’
hands
,
Who
now
are
here
,
taking
their
leaves
of
me
,
Who
am
prepared
against
your
territories
,
Though
not
for
Rome
itself
.
He
had
so
,
looking
as
it
were
—
Would
I
were
hanged
but
I
thought
there
was
more
in
him
than
I
could
think
.
Faith
,
look
you
,
one
cannot
tell
how
to
say
that
.
For
the
defense
of
a
town
our
general
is
excellent
.
Do
’t
?
He
will
do
’t
!
For
,
look
you
,
sir
,
he
has
as
many
friends
as
enemies
,
which
friends
,
sir
,
as
it
were
,
durst
not
,
look
you
,
sir
,
show
themselves
,
as
we
term
it
,
his
friends
whilest
he’s
in
directitude
.
But
when
they
shall
see
,
sir
,
his
crest
up
again
,
and
the
man
in
blood
,
they
will
out
of
their
burrows
like
coneys
after
rain
,
and
revel
all
with
him
.
Ay
,
and
you’ll
look
pale
Before
you
find
it
other
.
All
the
regions
Do
smilingly
revolt
,
and
who
resists
Are
mocked
for
valiant
ignorance
And
perish
constant
fools
.
Who
is
’t
can
blame
him
?
Your
enemies
and
his
find
something
in
him
.
I’ll
undertake
’t
.
I
think
he’ll
hear
me
.
Yet
to
bite
his
lip
And
hum
at
good
Cominius
much
unhearts
me
.
He
was
not
taken
well
;
he
had
not
dined
.
The
veins
unfilled
,
our
blood
is
cold
,
and
then
We
pout
upon
the
morning
,
are
unapt
To
give
or
to
forgive
;
but
when
we
have
stuffed
These
pipes
and
these
conveyances
of
our
blood
With
wine
and
feeding
,
we
have
suppler
souls
Than
in
our
priestlike
fasts
.
Therefore
I’ll
watch
him
Till
he
be
dieted
to
my
request
,
And
then
I’ll
set
upon
him
.
My
general
cares
not
for
you
.
Back
,
I
say
,
go
,
lest
I
let
forth
your
half
pint
of
blood
.
Back
!
That’s
the
utmost
of
your
having
.
Back
!
Now
,
you
companion
,
I’ll
say
an
errand
for
you
.
You
shall
know
now
that
I
am
in
estimation
;
you
shall
perceive
that
a
Jack
guardant
cannot
office
me
from
my
son
Coriolanus
.
Guess
but
by
my
entertainment
with
him
if
thou
stand’st
not
i’
th’
state
of
hanging
or
of
some
death
more
long
in
spectatorship
and
crueler
in
suffering
;
behold
now
presently
,
and
swoon
for
what’s
to
come
upon
thee
.
The
glorious
gods
sit
in
hourly
synod
about
thy
particular
prosperity
and
love
thee
no
worse
than
thy
old
father
Menenius
does
!
O
my
son
,
my
son
!
Thou
art
preparing
fire
for
us
;
look
thee
,
here’s
water
to
quench
it
.
I
was
hardly
moved
to
come
to
thee
;
but
being
assured
none
but
myself
could
move
thee
,
I
have
been
blown
out
of
your
gates
with
sighs
,
and
conjure
thee
to
pardon
Rome
and
thy
petitionary
countrymen
.
The
good
gods
assuage
thy
wrath
and
turn
the
dregs
of
it
upon
this
varlet
here
,
this
,
who
,
like
a
block
,
hath
denied
my
access
to
thee
.
This
last
old
man
,
Whom
with
a
cracked
heart
I
have
sent
to
Rome
,
Loved
me
above
the
measure
of
a
father
,
Nay
,
godded
me
indeed
.
Their
latest
refuge
Was
to
send
him
,
for
whose
old
love
I
have
—
Though
I
showed
sourly
to
him
—
once
more
offered
The
first
conditions
,
which
they
did
refuse
And
cannot
now
accept
,
to
grace
him
only
That
thought
he
could
do
more
.
A
very
little
I
have
yielded
to
.
Fresh
embassies
and
suits
,
Nor
from
the
state
nor
private
friends
,
hereafter
Will
I
lend
ear
to
.
Ha
?
What
shout
is
this
?
Shall
I
be
tempted
to
infringe
my
vow
In
the
same
time
’tis
made
?
I
will
not
.
My
wife
comes
foremost
,
then
the
honored
mold
Wherein
this
trunk
was
framed
,
and
in
her
hand
The
grandchild
to
her
blood
.
But
out
,
affection
!
All
bond
and
privilege
of
nature
,
break
!
Let
it
be
virtuous
to
be
obstinate
.
What
is
that
curtsy
worth
?
Or
those
doves’
eyes
,
Which
can
make
gods
forsworn
?
I
melt
and
am
not
Of
stronger
earth
than
others
.
My
mother
bows
,
As
if
Olympus
to
a
molehill
should
In
supplication
nod
;
and
my
young
boy
Hath
an
aspect
of
intercession
which
Great
Nature
cries
Deny
not
!
Let
the
Volsces
Plow
Rome
and
harrow
Italy
,
I’ll
never
Be
such
a
gosling
to
obey
instinct
,
but
stand
As
if
a
man
were
author
of
himself
,
And
knew
no
other
kin
.
Should
we
be
silent
and
not
speak
,
our
raiment
And
state
of
bodies
would
bewray
what
life
We
have
led
since
thy
exile
.
Think
with
thyself
How
more
unfortunate
than
all
living
women
Are
we
come
hither
;
since
that
thy
sight
,
which
should
Make
our
eyes
flow
with
joy
,
hearts
dance
with
comforts
,
Constrains
them
weep
and
shake
with
fear
and
sorrow
,
Making
the
mother
,
wife
,
and
child
to
see
The
son
,
the
husband
,
and
the
father
tearing
His
country’s
bowels
out
.
And
to
poor
we
Thine
enmity’s
most
capital
.
Thou
barr’st
us
Our
prayers
to
the
gods
,
which
is
a
comfort
That
all
but
we
enjoy
.
For
how
can
we
—
Alas
,
how
can
we
—
for
our
country
pray
,
Whereto
we
are
bound
,
together
with
thy
victory
,
Whereto
we
are
bound
?
Alack
,
or
we
must
lose
The
country
,
our
dear
nurse
,
or
else
thy
person
,
Our
comfort
in
the
country
.
We
must
find
An
evident
calamity
,
though
we
had
Our
wish
,
which
side
should
win
,
for
either
thou
Must
as
a
foreign
recreant
be
led
With
manacles
through
our
streets
,
or
else
Triumphantly
tread
on
thy
country’s
ruin
And
bear
the
palm
for
having
bravely
shed
Thy
wife
and
children’s
blood
.
For
myself
,
son
,
I
purpose
not
to
wait
on
fortune
till
These
wars
determine
.
If
I
cannot
persuade
thee
Rather
to
show
a
noble
grace
to
both
parts
Than
seek
the
end
of
one
,
thou
shalt
no
sooner
March
to
assault
thy
country
than
to
tread
—
Trust
to
’t
,
thou
shalt
not
—
on
thy
mother’s
womb
That
brought
thee
to
this
world
.
O
mother
,
mother
!
What
have
you
done
?
Behold
,
the
heavens
do
ope
,
The
gods
look
down
,
and
this
unnatural
scene
They
laugh
at
.
O
,
my
mother
,
mother
,
O
!
You
have
won
a
happy
victory
to
Rome
,
But
,
for
your
son
—
believe
it
,
O
,
believe
it
!
—
Most
dangerously
you
have
with
him
prevailed
,
If
not
most
mortal
to
him
.
But
let
it
come
.
—
Aufidius
,
though
I
cannot
make
true
wars
,
I’ll
frame
convenient
peace
.
Now
,
good
Aufidius
,
Were
you
in
my
stead
,
would
you
have
heard
A
mother
less
?
Or
granted
less
,
Aufidius
?
So
he
did
,
my
lord
.
The
army
marvelled
at
it
,
and
,
in
the
last
,
When
he
had
carried
Rome
and
that
we
looked
For
no
less
spoil
than
glory
—
There
was
it
For
which
my
sinews
shall
be
stretched
upon
him
.
At
a
few
drops
of
women’s
rheum
,
which
are
As
cheap
as
lies
,
he
sold
the
blood
and
labor
Of
our
great
action
.
Therefore
shall
he
die
,
And
I’ll
renew
me
in
his
fall
.
But
hark
!
Hail
,
lords
!
I
am
returned
your
soldier
,
No
more
infected
with
my
country’s
love
Than
when
I
parted
hence
,
but
still
subsisting
Under
your
great
command
.
You
are
to
know
That
prosperously
I
have
attempted
,
and
With
bloody
passage
led
your
wars
even
to
The
gates
of
Rome
.
Our
spoils
we
have
brought
home
Doth
more
than
counterpoise
a
full
third
part
The
charges
of
the
action
.
We
have
made
peace
With
no
less
honor
to
the
Antiates
Than
shame
to
th’
Romans
,
and
we
here
deliver
,
Subscribed
by’
th’
Consuls
and
patricians
,
Together
with
the
seal
o’
th’
Senate
,
what
We
have
compounded
on
.
Ay
,
Martius
,
Caius
Martius
.
Dost
thou
think
I’ll
grace
thee
with
that
robbery
,
thy
stol’n
name
Coriolanus
,
in
Corioles
?
You
lords
and
heads
o’
th’
state
,
perfidiously
He
has
betrayed
your
business
and
given
up
For
certain
drops
of
salt
your
city
Rome
—
I
say
your
city
—
to
his
wife
and
mother
,
Breaking
his
oath
and
resolution
like
A
twist
of
rotten
silk
,
never
admitting
Counsel
o’
th’
war
,
but
at
his
nurse’s
tears
He
whined
and
roared
away
your
victory
,
That
pages
blushed
at
him
and
men
of
heart
Looked
wond’ring
each
at
other
.
You
do
not
meet
a
man
but
frowns
.
Our
bloods
No
more
obey
the
heavens
than
our
courtiers’
Still
seem
as
does
the
King’s
.
He
that
hath
lost
her
,
too
.
So
is
the
Queen
,
That
most
desired
the
match
.
But
not
a
courtier
,
Although
they
wear
their
faces
to
the
bent
Of
the
King’s
looks
,
hath
a
heart
that
is
not
Glad
at
the
thing
they
scowl
at
.
Nay
,
stay
a
little
!
Were
you
but
riding
forth
to
air
yourself
,
Such
parting
were
too
petty
.
Look
here
,
love
:
This
diamond
was
my
mother’s
.
Take
it
,
heart
,
But
keep
it
till
you
woo
another
wife
When
Imogen
is
dead
.
Thou
basest
thing
,
avoid
hence
,
from
my
sight
!
If
after
this
command
thou
fraught
the
court
With
thy
unworthiness
,
thou
diest
.
Away
!
Thou
’rt
poison
to
my
blood
.
Nay
,
let
her
languish
A
drop
of
blood
a
day
,
and
being
aged
Die
of
this
folly
.
If
my
shirt
were
bloody
,
then
to
shift
it
.
Have
I
hurt
him
?
I
would
have
broke
mine
eyestrings
,
cracked
them
,
but
To
look
upon
him
till
the
diminution
Of
space
had
pointed
him
sharp
as
my
needle
;
Nay
,
followed
him
till
he
had
melted
from
The
smallness
of
a
gnat
to
air
;
and
then
Have
turned
mine
eye
and
wept
.
But
,
good
Pisanio
,
When
shall
we
hear
from
him
?
Believe
it
,
sir
,
I
have
seen
him
in
Britain
.
He
was
then
of
a
crescent
note
,
expected
to
prove
so
worthy
as
since
he
hath
been
allowed
the
name
of
.
But
I
could
then
have
looked
on
him
without
the
help
of
admiration
,
though
the
catalogue
of
his
endowments
had
been
tabled
by
his
side
and
I
to
peruse
him
by
items
.
Safely
,
I
think
.
’Twas
a
contention
in
public
,
which
may
without
contradiction
suffer
the
report
.
It
was
much
like
an
argument
that
fell
out
last
night
,
where
each
of
us
fell
in
praise
of
our
country
mistresses
,
this
gentleman
at
that
time
vouching
—
and
upon
warrant
of
bloody
affirmation
—
his
to
be
more
fair
,
virtuous
,
wise
,
chaste
,
constant
,
qualified
,
and
less
attemptable
than
any
the
rarest
of
our
ladies
in
France
.
Ay
,
madam
,
with
his
eyes
in
flood
with
laughter
.
It
is
a
recreation
to
be
by
And
hear
him
mock
the
Frenchman
.
But
heavens
know
Some
men
are
much
to
blame
.
Am
I
one
,
sir
?
You
look
on
me
.
What
wrack
discern
you
in
me
Deserves
your
pity
?
Is
it
fit
I
went
to
look
upon
him
?
Is
there
no
derogation
in
’t
?
Your
very
goodness
and
your
company
O’erpays
all
I
can
do
.
By
this
,
your
king
Hath
heard
of
great
Augustus
.
Caius
Lucius
Will
do
’s
commission
throughly
.
And
I
think
He’ll
grant
the
tribute
,
send
th’
arrearages
,
Or
look
upon
our
Romans
,
whose
remembrance
Is
yet
fresh
in
their
grief
.
Your
lady
Is
one
of
the
fairest
that
I
have
looked
upon
.
And
therewithal
the
best
,
or
let
her
beauty
Look
thorough
a
casement
to
allure
false
hearts
And
be
false
with
them
.
O
,
no
,
no
,
no
,
’tis
true
.
Here
,
take
this
too
.
It
is
a
basilisk
unto
mine
eye
,
Kills
me
to
look
on
’t
.
Let
there
be
no
honor
Where
there
is
beauty
,
truth
where
semblance
,
love
Where
there’s
another
man
.
The
vows
of
women
Of
no
more
bondage
be
to
where
they
are
made
Than
they
are
to
their
virtues
,
which
is
nothing
.
O
,
above
measure
false
!
Is
there
no
way
for
men
to
be
,
but
women
Must
be
half-workers
?
We
are
all
bastards
,
And
that
most
venerable
man
which
I
Did
call
my
father
was
I
know
not
where
When
I
was
stamped
.
Some
coiner
with
his
tools
Made
me
a
counterfeit
;
yet
my
mother
seemed
The
Dian
of
that
time
;
so
doth
my
wife
The
nonpareil
of
this
.
O
,
vengeance
,
vengeance
!
Me
of
my
lawful
pleasure
she
restrained
And
prayed
me
oft
forbearance
;
did
it
with
A
pudency
so
rosy
the
sweet
view
on
’t
Might
well
have
warmed
old
Saturn
,
that
I
thought
her
As
chaste
as
unsunned
snow
.
O
,
all
the
devils
!
This
yellow
Iachimo
in
an
hour
,
was
’t
not
?
Or
less
?
At
first
?
Perchance
he
spoke
not
,
but
,
Like
a
full-acorned
boar
,
a
German
one
,
Cried
O
!
and
mounted
;
found
no
opposition
But
what
he
looked
for
should
oppose
and
she
Should
from
encounter
guard
.
Could
I
find
out
The
woman’s
part
in
me
—
for
there’s
no
motion
That
tends
to
vice
in
man
but
I
affirm
It
is
the
woman’s
part
:
be
it
lying
,
note
it
,
The
woman’s
;
flattering
,
hers
;
deceiving
,
hers
;
Lust
and
rank
thoughts
,
hers
,
hers
;
revenges
,
hers
;
Ambitions
,
covetings
,
change
of
prides
,
disdain
,
Nice
longing
,
slanders
,
mutability
,
All
faults
that
have
a
name
,
nay
,
that
hell
knows
,
Why
,
hers
,
in
part
or
all
,
but
rather
all
.
For
even
to
vice
They
are
not
constant
,
but
are
changing
still
One
vice
but
of
a
minute
old
for
one
Not
half
so
old
as
that
.
I’ll
write
against
them
,
Detest
them
,
curse
them
.
Yet
’tis
greater
skill
In
a
true
hate
to
pray
they
have
their
will
;
The
very
devils
cannot
plague
them
better
.
I
am
sorry
,
Cymbeline
,
That
I
am
to
pronounce
Augustus
Caesar
—
Caesar
,
that
hath
more
kings
his
servants
than
Thyself
domestic
officers
—
thine
enemy
.
Receive
it
from
me
,
then
:
war
and
confusion
In
Caesar’s
name
pronounce
I
’gainst
thee
.
Look
For
fury
not
to
be
resisted
.
Thus
defied
,
I
thank
thee
for
myself
.
How
?
Of
adultery
?
Wherefore
write
you
not
What
monsters
her
accuse
?
Leonatus
,
O
master
,
what
a
strange
infection
Is
fall’n
into
thy
ear
!
What
false
Italian
,
As
poisonous-tongued
as
handed
,
hath
prevailed
On
thy
too
ready
hearing
?
Disloyal
?
No
.
She’s
punished
for
her
truth
and
undergoes
,
More
goddesslike
than
wifelike
,
such
assaults
As
would
take
in
some
virtue
.
O
my
master
,
Thy
mind
to
her
is
now
as
low
as
were
Thy
fortunes
.
How
?
That
I
should
murder
her
,
Upon
the
love
and
truth
and
vows
which
I
Have
made
to
thy
command
?
I
her
?
Her
blood
?
If
it
be
so
to
do
good
service
,
never
Let
me
be
counted
serviceable
.
How
look
I
That
I
should
seem
to
lack
humanity
So
much
as
this
fact
comes
to
?
Do
’t
!
The
letter
That
I
have
sent
her
,
by
her
own
command
Shall
give
thee
opportunity
.
O
damned
paper
,
Black
as
the
ink
that’s
on
thee
!
Senseless
bauble
,
Art
thou
a
fedary
for
this
act
,
and
look’st
So
virginlike
without
?
Lo
,
here
she
comes
.
I
am
ignorant
in
what
I
am
commanded
.
I
see
before
me
,
man
.
Nor
here
,
nor
here
,
Nor
what
ensues
,
but
have
a
fog
in
them
That
I
cannot
look
through
.
Away
,
I
prithee
.
Do
as
I
bid
thee
.
There’s
no
more
to
say
.
Accessible
is
none
but
Milford
way
.
How
hard
it
is
to
hide
the
sparks
of
nature
!
These
boys
know
little
they
are
sons
to
th’
King
,
Nor
Cymbeline
dreams
that
they
are
alive
.
They
think
they
are
mine
,
and
,
though
trained
up
thus
meanly
,
I’
th’
cave
wherein
they
bow
,
their
thoughts
do
hit
The
roofs
of
palaces
,
and
nature
prompts
them
In
simple
and
low
things
to
prince
it
much
Beyond
the
trick
of
others
.
This
Polydor
,
The
heir
of
Cymbeline
and
Britain
,
who
The
King
his
father
called
Guiderius
—
Jove
!
When
on
my
three-foot
stool
I
sit
and
tell
The
warlike
feats
I
have
done
,
his
spirits
fly
out
Into
my
story
;
say
Thus
mine
enemy
fell
,
And
thus
I
set
my
foot
on
’s
neck
,
even
then
The
princely
blood
flows
in
his
cheek
,
he
sweats
,
Strains
his
young
nerves
,
and
puts
himself
in
posture
That
acts
my
words
.
The
younger
brother
,
Cadwal
,
Once
Arviragus
,
in
as
like
a
figure
Strikes
life
into
my
speech
and
shows
much
more
His
own
conceiving
.
Hark
,
the
game
is
roused
!
O
Cymbeline
,
heaven
and
my
conscience
knows
Thou
didst
unjustly
banish
me
;
whereon
,
At
three
and
two
years
old
I
stole
these
babes
,
Thinking
to
bar
thee
of
succession
as
Thou
refts
me
of
my
lands
.
Euriphile
,
Thou
wast
their
nurse
;
they
took
thee
for
their
mother
,
And
every
day
do
honor
to
her
grave
.
Myself
,
Belarius
,
that
am
Morgan
called
,
They
take
for
natural
father
.
The
game
is
up
!
Thou
told’st
me
,
when
we
came
from
horse
,
the
place
Was
near
at
hand
.
Ne’er
longed
my
mother
so
To
see
me
first
as
I
have
now
.
Pisanio
,
man
,
Where
is
Posthumus
?
What
is
in
thy
mind
That
makes
thee
stare
thus
?
Wherefore
breaks
that
sigh
From
th’
inward
of
thee
?
One
but
painted
thus
Would
be
interpreted
a
thing
perplexed
Beyond
self-explication
.
Put
thyself
Into
a
havior
of
less
fear
,
ere
wildness
Vanquish
my
staider
senses
.
What’s
the
matter
?
Why
tender’st
thou
that
paper
to
me
with
A
look
untender
?
If
’t
be
summer
news
,
Smile
to
’t
before
;
if
winterly
,
thou
need’st
But
keep
that
count’nance
still
.
My
husband’s
hand
!
That
drug-damned
Italy
hath
out-craftied
him
,
And
he’s
at
some
hard
point
.
Speak
,
man
!
Thy
tongue
May
take
off
some
extremity
,
which
to
read
Would
be
even
mortal
to
me
.
I
false
?
Thy
conscience
witness
!
Iachimo
,
Thou
didst
accuse
him
of
incontinency
.
Thou
then
looked’st
like
a
villain
.
Now
methinks
Thy
favor’s
good
enough
.
Some
jay
of
Italy
,
Whose
mother
was
her
painting
,
hath
betrayed
him
.
Poor
I
am
stale
,
a
garment
out
of
fashion
,
And
,
for
I
am
richer
than
to
hang
by
th’
walls
,
I
must
be
ripped
.
To
pieces
with
me
!
O
,
Men’s
vows
are
women’s
traitors
!
All
good
seeming
,
By
thy
revolt
,
O
husband
,
shall
be
thought
Put
on
for
villainy
,
not
born
where
’t
grows
,
But
worn
a
bait
for
ladies
.
True
honest
men
,
being
heard
like
false
Aeneas
,
Were
in
his
time
thought
false
,
and
Sinon’s
weeping
Did
scandal
many
a
holy
tear
,
took
pity
From
most
true
wretchedness
.
So
thou
,
Posthumus
,
Wilt
lay
the
leaven
on
all
proper
men
;
Goodly
and
gallant
shall
be
false
and
perjured
From
thy
great
fail
.
—
Come
,
fellow
,
be
thou
honest
;
Do
thou
thy
master’s
bidding
.
When
thou
seest
him
,
A
little
witness
my
obedience
.
Look
,
I
draw
the
sword
myself
.
Take
it
,
and
hit
The
innocent
mansion
of
my
love
,
my
heart
.
Fear
not
;
’tis
empty
of
all
things
but
grief
.
Thy
master
is
not
there
,
who
was
indeed
The
riches
of
it
.
Do
his
bidding
;
strike
.
Thou
mayst
be
valiant
in
a
better
cause
,
But
now
thou
seem’st
a
coward
.
No
,
on
my
life
.
I’ll
give
but
notice
you
are
dead
,
and
send
him
Some
bloody
sign
of
it
,
for
’tis
commanded
I
should
do
so
.
You
shall
be
missed
at
court
,
And
that
will
well
confirm
it
.
’Tis
not
sleepy
business
,
But
must
be
looked
to
speedily
and
strongly
.
Our
expectation
that
it
would
be
thus
Hath
made
us
forward
.
But
,
my
gentle
queen
,
Where
is
our
daughter
?
She
hath
not
appeared
Before
the
Roman
,
nor
to
us
hath
tendered
The
duty
of
the
day
.
She
looks
us
like
A
thing
more
made
of
malice
than
of
duty
.
We
have
noted
it
.
—
Call
her
before
us
,
for
We
have
been
too
slight
in
sufferance
.
Go
,
look
after
.
Pisanio
,
thou
that
stand’st
so
for
Posthumus
—
He
hath
a
drug
of
mine
.
I
pray
his
absence
Proceed
by
swallowing
that
,
for
he
believes
It
is
a
thing
most
precious
.
But
for
her
,
Where
is
she
gone
?
Haply
despair
hath
seized
her
,
Or
,
winged
with
fervor
of
her
love
,
she’s
flown
To
her
desired
Posthumus
.
Gone
she
is
To
death
or
to
dishonor
,
and
my
end
Can
make
good
use
of
either
.
She
being
down
,
I
have
the
placing
of
the
British
crown
.
How
now
,
my
son
?
I
see
a
man’s
life
is
a
tedious
one
.
I
have
tired
myself
,
and
for
two
nights
together
Have
made
the
ground
my
bed
.
I
should
be
sick
But
that
my
resolution
helps
me
.
Milford
,
When
from
the
mountain
top
Pisanio
showed
thee
,
Thou
wast
within
a
ken
.
O
Jove
,
I
think
Foundations
fly
the
wretched
—
such
,
I
mean
,
Where
they
should
be
relieved
.
Two
beggars
told
me
I
could
not
miss
my
way
.
Will
poor
folks
lie
,
That
have
afflictions
on
them
,
knowing
’tis
A
punishment
or
trial
?
Yes
.
No
wonder
,
When
rich
ones
scarce
tell
true
.
To
lapse
in
fullness
Is
sorer
than
to
lie
for
need
,
and
falsehood
Is
worse
in
kings
than
beggars
.
My
dear
lord
,
Thou
art
one
o’
th’
false
ones
.
Now
I
think
on
thee
,
My
hunger’s
gone
;
but
even
before
,
I
was
At
point
to
sink
for
food
.
But
what
is
this
?
Here
is
a
path
to
’t
.
’Tis
some
savage
hold
.
I
were
best
not
call
;
I
dare
not
call
.
Yet
famine
,
Ere
clean
it
o’erthrow
nature
,
makes
it
valiant
.
Plenty
and
peace
breeds
cowards
;
hardness
ever
Of
hardiness
is
mother
.
—
Ho
!
Who’s
here
?
If
anything
that’s
civil
,
speak
;
if
savage
,
Take
or
lend
.
Ho
!
—
No
answer
?
Then
I’ll
enter
.
Best
draw
my
sword
;
an
if
mine
enemy
But
fear
the
sword
like
me
,
he’ll
scarcely
look
on
’t
.
Such
a
foe
,
good
heavens
!
Stay
,
come
not
in
!
But
that
it
eats
our
victuals
,
I
should
think
Here
were
a
fairy
.
Good
masters
,
harm
me
not
.
Before
I
entered
here
,
I
called
,
and
thought
To
have
begged
or
bought
what
I
have
took
.
Good
troth
,
I
have
stol’n
naught
,
nor
would
not
,
though
I
had
found
Gold
strewed
i’
th’
floor
.
Here’s
money
for
my
meat
.
I
would
have
left
it
on
the
board
so
soon
As
I
had
made
my
meal
,
and
parted
With
prayers
for
the
provider
.
Poor
sick
Fidele
.
I’ll
willingly
to
him
.
To
gain
his
color
I’d
let
a
parish
of
such
Clotens
blood
,
And
praise
myself
for
charity
.
O
thou
goddess
,
Thou
divine
Nature
,
thou
thyself
thou
blazon’st
In
these
two
princely
boys
!
They
are
as
gentle
As
zephyrs
blowing
below
the
violet
,
Not
wagging
his
sweet
head
;
and
yet
as
rough
,
Their
royal
blood
enchafed
,
as
the
rud’st
wind
That
by
the
top
doth
take
the
mountain
pine
And
make
him
stoop
to
th’
vale
.
’Tis
wonder
That
an
invisible
instinct
should
frame
them
To
royalty
unlearned
,
honor
untaught
,
Civility
not
seen
from
other
,
valor
That
wildly
grows
in
them
but
yields
a
crop
As
if
it
had
been
sowed
.
Yet
still
it’s
strange
What
Cloten’s
being
here
to
us
portends
,
Or
what
his
death
will
bring
us
.
Look
,
here
he
comes
,
And
brings
the
dire
occasion
in
his
arms
Of
what
we
blame
him
for
.
O’
th’
floor
,
His
arms
thus
leagued
.
I
thought
he
slept
,
and
put
My
clouted
brogues
from
off
my
feet
,
whose
rudeness
Answered
my
steps
too
loud
.
Yes
,
sir
,
to
Milford
Haven
.
Which
is
the
way
?
I
thank
you
.
By
yond
bush
?
Pray
,
how
far
thither
?
Ods
pittikins
,
can
it
be
six
mile
yet
?
I
have
gone
all
night
.
Faith
,
I’ll
lie
down
and
sleep
.
But
soft
!
No
bedfellow
?
O
gods
and
goddesses
!
These
flowers
are
like
the
pleasures
of
the
world
,
This
bloody
man
the
care
on
’t
.
I
hope
I
dream
,
For
so
I
thought
I
was
a
cave-keeper
And
cook
to
honest
creatures
.
But
’tis
not
so
.
’Twas
but
a
bolt
of
nothing
,
shot
at
nothing
,
Which
the
brain
makes
of
fumes
.
Our
very
eyes
Are
sometimes
like
our
judgments
,
blind
.
Good
faith
,
I
tremble
still
with
fear
;
but
if
there
be
Yet
left
in
heaven
as
small
a
drop
of
pity
As
a
wren’s
eye
,
feared
gods
,
a
part
of
it
!
The
dream’s
here
still
.
Even
when
I
wake
it
is
Without
me
as
within
me
,
not
imagined
,
felt
.
A
headless
man
?
The
garments
of
Posthumus
?
I
know
the
shape
of
’s
leg
.
This
is
his
hand
,
His
foot
Mercurial
,
his
Martial
thigh
,
The
brawns
of
Hercules
;
but
his
Jovial
face
—
Murder
in
heaven
!
How
?
’Tis
gone
.
Pisanio
,
All
curses
madded
Hecuba
gave
the
Greeks
,
And
mine
to
boot
,
be
darted
on
thee
!
Thou
,
Conspired
with
that
irregulous
devil
Cloten
,
Hath
here
cut
off
my
lord
.
To
write
and
read
Be
henceforth
treacherous
.
Damned
Pisanio
Hath
with
his
forgèd
letters
—
damned
Pisanio
—
From
this
most
bravest
vessel
of
the
world
Struck
the
maintop
.
O
Posthumus
,
alas
,
Where
is
thy
head
?
Where’s
that
?
Ay
me
,
where’s
that
?
Pisanio
might
have
killed
thee
at
the
heart
And
left
this
head
on
.
How
should
this
be
?
Pisanio
?
’Tis
he
and
Cloten
.
Malice
and
lucre
in
them
Have
laid
this
woe
here
.
O
,
’tis
pregnant
,
pregnant
!
The
drug
he
gave
me
,
which
he
said
was
precious
And
cordial
to
me
,
have
I
not
found
it
Murd’rous
to
th’
senses
?
That
confirms
it
home
.
This
is
Pisanio’s
deed
,
and
Cloten
.
O
,
Give
color
to
my
pale
cheek
with
thy
blood
,
That
we
the
horrider
may
seem
to
those
Which
chance
to
find
us
.
O
my
lord
!
My
lord
!
This
forwardness
Makes
our
hopes
fair
.
Command
our
present
numbers
Be
mustered
;
bid
the
Captains
look
to
’t
.
—
Now
,
sir
,
What
have
you
dreamed
of
late
of
this
war’s
purpose
?
He’ll
then
instruct
us
of
this
body
.
—
Young
one
,
Inform
us
of
thy
fortunes
,
for
it
seems
They
crave
to
be
demanded
.
Who
is
this
Thou
mak’st
thy
bloody
pillow
?
Or
who
was
he
That
,
otherwise
than
noble
nature
did
,
Hath
altered
that
good
picture
?
What’s
thy
interest
In
this
sad
wrack
?
How
came
’t
?
Who
is
’t
?
What
art
thou
?
By
this
sun
that
shines
,
I’ll
thither
.
What
thing
is
’t
that
I
never
Did
see
man
die
,
scarce
ever
looked
on
blood
But
that
of
coward
hares
,
hot
goats
,
and
venison
!
Never
bestrid
a
horse
save
one
that
had
A
rider
like
myself
,
who
ne’er
wore
rowel
Nor
iron
on
his
heel
!
I
am
ashamed
To
look
upon
the
holy
sun
,
to
have
The
benefit
of
his
blest
beams
,
remaining
So
long
a
poor
unknown
.
No
reason
I
—
since
of
your
lives
you
set
So
slight
a
valuation
—
should
reserve
My
cracked
one
to
more
care
.
Have
with
you
,
boys
!
If
in
your
country
wars
you
chance
to
die
,
That
is
my
bed
,
too
,
lads
,
and
there
I’ll
lie
.
Lead
,
lead
.
The
time
seems
long
;
their
blood
thinks
scorn
Till
it
fly
out
and
show
them
princes
born
.
Yea
,
bloody
cloth
,
I’ll
keep
thee
,
for
I
wished
Thou
shouldst
be
colored
thus
.
You
married
ones
,
If
each
of
you
should
take
this
course
,
how
many
Must
murder
wives
much
better
than
themselves
For
wrying
but
a
little
!
O
Pisanio
,
Every
good
servant
does
not
all
commands
;
No
bond
but
to
do
just
ones
.
Gods
,
if
you
Should
have
ta’en
vengeance
on
my
faults
,
I
never
Had
lived
to
put
on
this
;
so
had
you
saved
The
noble
Imogen
to
repent
,
and
struck
Me
,
wretch
more
worth
your
vengeance
.
But
,
alack
,
You
snatch
some
hence
for
little
faults
;
that’s
love
,
To
have
them
fall
no
more
;
you
some
permit
To
second
ills
with
ills
,
each
elder
worse
,
And
make
them
dread
it
,
to
the
doers’
thrift
.
But
Imogen
is
your
own
.
Do
your
best
wills
,
And
make
me
blest
to
obey
.
I
am
brought
hither
Among
th’
Italian
gentry
,
and
to
fight
Against
my
lady’s
kingdom
.
’Tis
enough
That
,
Britain
,
I
have
killed
thy
mistress
.
Peace
,
I’ll
give
no
wound
to
thee
.
Therefore
,
good
heavens
,
Hear
patiently
my
purpose
.
I’ll
disrobe
me
Of
these
Italian
weeds
and
suit
myself
As
does
a
Briton
peasant
.
So
I’ll
fight
Against
the
part
I
come
with
;
so
I’ll
die
For
thee
,
O
Imogen
,
even
for
whom
my
life
Is
every
breath
a
death
.
And
thus
,
unknown
,
Pitied
nor
hated
,
to
the
face
of
peril
Myself
I’ll
dedicate
.
Let
me
make
men
know
More
valor
in
me
than
my
habits
show
.
Gods
,
put
the
strength
o’
th’
Leonati
in
me
.
To
shame
the
guise
o’
th’
world
,
I
will
begin
The
fashion
:
less
without
and
more
within
.
Close
by
the
battle
,
ditched
,
and
walled
with
turf
;
Which
gave
advantage
to
an
ancient
soldier
,
An
honest
one
,
I
warrant
,
who
deserved
So
long
a
breeding
as
his
white
beard
came
to
,
In
doing
this
for
’s
country
.
Athwart
the
lane
,
He
with
two
striplings
—
lads
more
like
to
run
The
country
base
than
to
commit
such
slaughter
,
With
faces
fit
for
masks
,
or
rather
fairer
Than
those
for
preservation
cased
or
shame
—
Made
good
the
passage
,
cried
to
those
that
fled
Our
Britain’s
harts
die
flying
,
not
our
men
.
To
darkness
fleet
souls
that
fly
backwards
.
Stand
,
Or
we
are
Romans
and
will
give
you
that
Like
beasts
which
you
shun
beastly
,
and
may
save
But
to
look
back
in
frown
.
Stand
,
stand
!
These
three
,
Three
thousand
confident
,
in
act
as
many
—
For
three
performers
are
the
file
when
all
The
rest
do
nothing
—
with
this
word
Stand
,
stand
,
Accommodated
by
the
place
,
more
charming
With
their
own
nobleness
,
which
could
have
turned
A
distaff
to
a
lance
,
gilded
pale
looks
,
Part
shame
,
part
spirit
renewed
;
that
some
,
turned
coward
But
by
example
—
O
,
a
sin
in
war
,
Damned
in
the
first
beginners
!
—
gan
to
look
The
way
that
they
did
and
to
grin
like
lions
Upon
the
pikes
o’
th’
hunters
.
Then
began
A
stop
i’
th’
chaser
,
a
retire
;
anon
A
rout
,
confusion
thick
.
Forthwith
they
fly
Chickens
the
way
which
they
stooped
eagles
;
slaves
The
strides
they
victors
made
;
and
now
our
cowards
,
Like
fragments
in
hard
voyages
,
became
The
life
o’
th’
need
.
Having
found
the
backdoor
open
Of
the
unguarded
hearts
,
heavens
,
how
they
wound
!
Some
slain
before
,
some
dying
,
some
their
friends
O’erborne
i’
th’
former
wave
,
ten
chased
by
one
,
Are
now
each
one
the
slaughterman
of
twenty
.
Those
that
would
die
or
ere
resist
are
grown
The
mortal
bugs
o’
th’
field
.
Thy
crystal
window
ope
;
look
out
.
No
longer
exercise
Upon
a
valiant
race
thy
harsh
And
potent
injuries
.
Indeed
,
sir
,
he
that
sleeps
feels
not
the
toothache
.
But
a
man
that
were
to
sleep
your
sleep
,
and
a
hangman
to
help
him
to
bed
,
I
think
he
would
change
places
with
his
officer
;
for
,
look
you
,
sir
,
you
know
not
which
way
you
shall
go
.
I
never
saw
Such
noble
fury
in
so
poor
a
thing
,
Such
precious
deeds
in
one
that
promised
naught
But
beggary
and
poor
looks
.
Bow
your
knees
.
Arise
my
knights
o’
th’
battle
.
I
create
you
Companions
to
our
person
,
and
will
fit
you
With
dignities
becoming
your
estates
.
There’s
business
in
these
faces
.
Why
so
sadly
Greet
you
our
victory
?
You
look
like
Romans
,
And
not
o’
th’
court
of
Britain
.
Consider
,
sir
,
the
chance
of
war
.
The
day
Was
yours
by
accident
.
Had
it
gone
with
us
,
We
should
not
,
when
the
blood
was
cool
,
have
threatened
Our
prisoners
with
the
sword
.
But
since
the
gods
Will
have
it
thus
,
that
nothing
but
our
lives
May
be
called
ransom
,
let
it
come
.
Sufficeth
A
Roman
with
a
Roman’s
heart
can
suffer
.
Augustus
lives
to
think
on
’t
;
and
so
much
For
my
peculiar
care
.
This
one
thing
only
I
will
entreat
:
my
boy
,
a
Briton
born
,
Let
him
be
ransomed
.
Never
master
had
A
page
so
kind
,
so
duteous
,
diligent
,
So
tender
over
his
occasions
,
true
,
So
feat
,
so
nurselike
.
Let
his
virtue
join
With
my
request
,
which
I’ll
make
bold
your
Highness
Cannot
deny
.
He
hath
done
no
Briton
harm
,
Though
he
have
served
a
Roman
.
Save
him
,
sir
,
And
spare
no
blood
beside
.
I
have
surely
seen
him
.
His
favor
is
familiar
to
me
.
—
Boy
,
Thou
hast
looked
thyself
into
my
grace
And
art
mine
own
.
I
know
not
why
,
wherefore
,
To
say
Live
,
boy
.
Ne’er
thank
thy
master
.
Live
,
And
ask
of
Cymbeline
what
boon
thou
wilt
,
Fitting
my
bounty
and
thy
state
,
I’ll
give
it
,
Yea
,
though
thou
do
demand
a
prisoner
,
The
noblest
ta’en
.
What
would’st
thou
,
boy
?
I
love
thee
more
and
more
.
Think
more
and
more
What’s
best
to
ask
.
Know’st
him
thou
look’st
on
?
Speak
.
Wilt
have
him
live
?
Is
he
thy
kin
?
Thy
friend
?
That
paragon
,
thy
daughter
,
For
whom
my
heart
drops
blood
and
my
false
spirits
Quail
to
remember
—
Give
me
leave
;
I
faint
.
I
am
too
blunt
and
saucy
.
Here’s
my
knee
.
Ere
I
arise
I
will
prefer
my
sons
,
Then
spare
not
the
old
father
.
Mighty
sir
,
These
two
young
gentlemen
that
call
me
father
And
think
they
are
my
sons
are
none
of
mine
.
They
are
the
issue
of
your
loins
,
my
liege
,
And
blood
of
your
begetting
.
Laud
we
the
gods
,
And
let
our
crooked
smokes
climb
to
their
nostrils
From
our
blest
altars
.
Publish
we
this
peace
To
all
our
subjects
.
Set
we
forward
.
Let
A
Roman
and
a
British
ensign
wave
Friendly
together
.
So
through
Lud’s
Town
march
,
And
in
the
temple
of
great
Jupiter
Our
peace
we’ll
ratify
,
seal
it
with
feasts
.
Set
on
there
.
Never
was
a
war
did
cease
,
Ere
bloody
hands
were
washed
,
with
such
a
peace
.
Peace
,
break
thee
off
!
Look
where
it
comes
again
.
Looks
he
not
like
the
King
?
Mark
it
,
Horatio
.
How
now
,
Horatio
,
you
tremble
and
look
pale
.
Is
not
this
something
more
than
fantasy
?
What
think
you
on
’t
?
A
mote
it
is
to
trouble
the
mind’s
eye
.
In
the
most
high
and
palmy
state
of
Rome
,
A
little
ere
the
mightiest
Julius
fell
,
The
graves
stood
tenantless
,
and
the
sheeted
dead
Did
squeak
and
gibber
in
the
Roman
streets
;
As
stars
with
trains
of
fire
and
dews
of
blood
,
Disasters
in
the
sun
;
and
the
moist
star
,
Upon
whose
influence
Neptune’s
empire
stands
,
Was
sick
almost
to
doomsday
with
eclipse
.
And
even
the
like
precurse
of
feared
events
,
As
harbingers
preceding
still
the
fates
And
prologue
to
the
omen
coming
on
,
Have
heaven
and
Earth
earth
together
demonstrated
Unto
our
climatures
and
countrymen
.
But
soft
,
behold
!
Lo
,
where
it
comes
again
!
I’ll
cross
it
though
it
blast
me
.
—
Stay
,
illusion
!
If
thou
hast
any
sound
or
use
of
voice
,
Speak
to
me
.
If
there
be
any
good
thing
to
be
done
That
may
to
thee
do
ease
and
grace
to
me
,
Speak
to
me
.
If
thou
art
privy
to
thy
country’s
fate
,
Which
happily
foreknowing
may
avoid
,
O
,
speak
!
Or
if
thou
hast
uphoarded
in
thy
life
Extorted
treasure
in
the
womb
of
earth
,
For
which
,
they
say
,
you
spirits
oft
walk
in
death
,
Speak
of
it
.
Stay
and
speak
!
—
Stop
it
,
Marcellus
.
So
have
I
heard
and
do
in
part
believe
it
.
But
look
,
the
morn
in
russet
mantle
clad
Walks
o’er
the
dew
of
yon
high
eastward
hill
.
Break
we
our
watch
up
,
and
by
my
advice
Let
us
impart
what
we
have
seen
tonight
Unto
young
Hamlet
;
for
,
upon
my
life
,
This
spirit
,
dumb
to
us
,
will
speak
to
him
.
Do
you
consent
we
shall
acquaint
him
with
it
As
needful
in
our
loves
,
fitting
our
duty
?
Good
Hamlet
,
cast
thy
nighted
color
off
,
And
let
thine
eye
look
like
a
friend
on
Denmark
.
Do
not
forever
with
thy
vailèd
lids
Seek
for
thy
noble
father
in
the
dust
.
Thou
know’st
’tis
common
;
all
that
lives
must
die
,
Passing
through
nature
to
eternity
.
He
was
a
man
.
Take
him
for
all
in
all
,
I
shall
not
look
upon
his
like
again
.
What , looked he frowningly ?
For
Hamlet
,
and
the
trifling
of
his
favor
,
Hold
it
a
fashion
and
a
toy
in
blood
,
A
violet
in
the
youth
of
primy
nature
,
Forward
,
not
permanent
,
sweet
,
not
lasting
,
The
perfume
and
suppliance
of
a
minute
,
No
more
.
Yet
here
,
Laertes
?
Aboard
,
aboard
,
for
shame
!
The
wind
sits
in
the
shoulder
of
your
sail
,
And
you
are
stayed
for
.
There
,
my
blessing
with
thee
.
And
these
few
precepts
in
thy
memory
Look
thou
character
.
Give
thy
thoughts
no
tongue
,
Nor
any
unproportioned
thought
his
act
.
Be
thou
familiar
,
but
by
no
means
vulgar
.
Those
friends
thou
hast
,
and
their
adoption
tried
,
Grapple
them
unto
thy
soul
with
hoops
of
steel
,
But
do
not
dull
thy
palm
with
entertainment
Of
each
new-hatched
,
unfledged
courage
.
Beware
Of
entrance
to
a
quarrel
,
but
,
being
in
,
Bear
’t
that
th’
opposèd
may
beware
of
thee
.
Give
every
man
thy
ear
,
but
few
thy
voice
.
Take
each
man’s
censure
,
but
reserve
thy
judgment
.
Costly
thy
habit
as
thy
purse
can
buy
,
But
not
expressed
in
fancy
(
rich
,
not
gaudy
)
,
For
the
apparel
oft
proclaims
the
man
,
And
they
in
France
of
the
best
rank
and
station
Are
of
a
most
select
and
generous
chief
in
that
.
Neither
a
borrower
nor
a
lender
be
,
For
loan
oft
loses
both
itself
and
friend
,
And
borrowing
dulls
the
edge
of
husbandry
.
This
above
all
:
to
thine
own
self
be
true
,
And
it
must
follow
,
as
the
night
the
day
,
Thou
canst
not
then
be
false
to
any
man
.
Farewell
.
My
blessing
season
this
in
thee
.
Ay
,
springes
to
catch
woodcocks
.
I
do
know
,
When
the
blood
burns
,
how
prodigal
the
soul
Lends
the
tongue
vows
.
These
blazes
,
daughter
,
Giving
more
light
than
heat
,
extinct
in
both
Even
in
their
promise
as
it
is
a-making
,
You
must
not
take
for
fire
.
From
this
time
Be
something
scanter
of
your
maiden
presence
.
Set
your
entreatments
at
a
higher
rate
Than
a
command
to
parle
.
For
Lord
Hamlet
,
Believe
so
much
in
him
that
he
is
young
,
And
with
a
larger
tether
may
he
walk
Than
may
be
given
you
.
In
few
,
Ophelia
,
Do
not
believe
his
vows
,
for
they
are
brokers
,
Not
of
that
dye
which
their
investments
show
,
But
mere
implorators
of
unholy
suits
,
Breathing
like
sanctified
and
pious
bawds
The
better
to
beguile
.
This
is
for
all
:
I
would
not
,
in
plain
terms
,
from
this
time
forth
Have
you
so
slander
any
moment
leisure
As
to
give
words
or
talk
with
the
Lord
Hamlet
.
Look
to
’t
,
I
charge
you
.
Come
your
ways
.
Look , my lord , it comes .
Look
with
what
courteous
action
It
waves
you
to
a
more
removèd
ground
.
But
do
not
go
with
it
.
What
if
it
tempt
you
toward
the
flood
,
my
lord
?
Or
to
the
dreadful
summit
of
the
cliff
That
beetles
o’er
his
base
into
the
sea
,
And
there
assume
some
other
horrible
form
Which
might
deprive
your
sovereignty
of
reason
And
draw
you
into
madness
?
Think
of
it
.
The
very
place
puts
toys
of
desperation
,
Without
more
motive
,
into
every
brain
That
looks
so
many
fathoms
to
the
sea
And
hears
it
roar
beneath
.
I
am
thy
father’s
spirit
,
Doomed
for
a
certain
term
to
walk
the
night
And
for
the
day
confined
to
fast
in
fires
Till
the
foul
crimes
done
in
my
days
of
nature
Are
burnt
and
purged
away
.
But
that
I
am
forbid
To
tell
the
secrets
of
my
prison
house
,
I
could
a
tale
unfold
whose
lightest
word
Would
harrow
up
thy
soul
,
freeze
thy
young
blood
,
Make
thy
two
eyes
,
like
stars
,
start
from
their
spheres
,
Thy
knotted
and
combinèd
locks
to
part
,
And
each
particular
hair
to
stand
an
end
,
Like
quills
upon
the
fearful
porpentine
.
But
this
eternal
blazon
must
not
be
To
ears
of
flesh
and
blood
.
List
,
list
,
O
list
!
If
thou
didst
ever
thy
dear
father
love
—
Ay
,
that
incestuous
,
that
adulterate
beast
,
With
witchcraft
of
his
wits
wit
,
with
traitorous
gifts
—
O
wicked
wit
and
gifts
,
that
have
the
power
So
to
seduce
!
—
won
to
his
shameful
lust
The
will
of
my
most
seeming-virtuous
queen
.
O
Hamlet
,
what
a
falling
off
was
there
!
From
me
,
whose
love
was
of
that
dignity
That
it
went
hand
in
hand
even
with
the
vow
I
made
to
her
in
marriage
,
and
to
decline
Upon
a
wretch
whose
natural
gifts
were
poor
To
those
of
mine
.
But
virtue
,
as
it
never
will
be
moved
,
Though
lewdness
court
it
in
a
shape
of
heaven
,
So
,
lust
,
though
to
a
radiant
angel
linked
,
Will
sate
itself
in
a
celestial
bed
And
prey
on
garbage
.
But
soft
,
methinks
I
scent
the
morning
air
.
Brief
let
me
be
.
Sleeping
within
my
orchard
,
My
custom
always
of
the
afternoon
,
Upon
my
secure
hour
thy
uncle
stole
,
With
juice
of
cursèd
hebona
in
a
vial
,
And
in
the
porches
of
my
ears
did
pour
The
leprous
distilment
,
whose
effect
Holds
such
an
enmity
with
blood
of
man
That
swift
as
quicksilver
it
courses
through
The
natural
gates
and
alleys
of
the
body
,
And
with
a
sudden
vigor
it
doth
posset
And
curd
,
like
eager
droppings
into
milk
,
The
thin
and
wholesome
blood
.
So
did
it
mine
,
And
a
most
instant
tetter
barked
about
,
Most
lazar-like
,
with
vile
and
loathsome
crust
All
my
smooth
body
.
Thus
was
I
,
sleeping
,
by
a
brother’s
hand
Of
life
,
of
crown
,
of
queen
at
once
dispatched
,
Cut
off
,
even
in
the
blossoms
of
my
sin
,
Unhouseled
,
disappointed
,
unaneled
,
No
reck’ning
made
,
but
sent
to
my
account
With
all
my
imperfections
on
my
head
.
O
horrible
,
O
horrible
,
most
horrible
!
If
thou
hast
nature
in
thee
,
bear
it
not
.
Let
not
the
royal
bed
of
Denmark
be
A
couch
for
luxury
and
damnèd
incest
.
But
,
howsomever
thou
pursues
this
act
,
Taint
not
thy
mind
,
nor
let
thy
soul
contrive
Against
thy
mother
aught
.
Leave
her
to
heaven
And
to
those
thorns
that
in
her
bosom
lodge
To
prick
and
sting
her
.
Fare
thee
well
at
once
.
The
glowworm
shows
the
matin
to
be
near
And
’gins
to
pale
his
uneffectual
fire
.
Adieu
,
adieu
,
adieu
.
Remember
me
.
Marry
,
well
said
,
very
well
said
.
Look
you
,
sir
,
Inquire
me
first
what
Danskers
are
in
Paris
;
And
how
,
and
who
,
what
means
,
and
where
they
keep
,
What
company
,
at
what
expense
;
and
finding
By
this
encompassment
and
drift
of
question
That
they
do
know
my
son
,
come
you
more
nearer
Than
your
particular
demands
will
touch
it
.
Take
you
,
as
’twere
,
some
distant
knowledge
of
him
,
As
thus
:
I
know
his
father
and
his
friends
And
,
in
part
,
him
.
Do
you
mark
this
,
Reynaldo
?
Faith
,
no
,
as
you
may
season
it
in
the
charge
.
You
must
not
put
another
scandal
on
him
That
he
is
open
to
incontinency
;
That’s
not
my
meaning
.
But
breathe
his
faults
so
quaintly
That
they
may
seem
the
taints
of
liberty
,
The
flash
and
outbreak
of
a
fiery
mind
,
A
savageness
in
unreclaimèd
blood
,
Of
general
assault
.
My
lord
,
as
I
was
sewing
in
my
closet
,
Lord
Hamlet
,
with
his
doublet
all
unbraced
,
No
hat
upon
his
head
,
his
stockings
fouled
,
Ungartered
,
and
down-gyvèd
to
his
ankle
,
Pale
as
his
shirt
,
his
knees
knocking
each
other
,
And
with
a
look
so
piteous
in
purport
As
if
he
had
been
loosèd
out
of
hell
To
speak
of
horrors
—
he
comes
before
me
.
Most
fair
return
of
greetings
and
desires
.
Upon
our
first
,
he
sent
out
to
suppress
His
nephew’s
levies
,
which
to
him
appeared
To
be
a
preparation
’gainst
the
Polack
,
But
,
better
looked
into
,
he
truly
found
It
was
against
your
Highness
.
Whereat
,
grieved
That
so
his
sickness
,
age
,
and
impotence
Was
falsely
borne
in
hand
,
sends
out
arrests
On
Fortinbras
,
which
he
,
in
brief
,
obeys
,
Receives
rebuke
from
Norway
,
and
,
in
fine
,
Makes
vow
before
his
uncle
never
more
To
give
th’
assay
of
arms
against
your
Majesty
.
Whereon
old
Norway
,
overcome
with
joy
,
Gives
him
three-score
thousand
crowns
in
annual
fee
And
his
commission
to
employ
those
soldiers
,
So
levied
as
before
,
against
the
Polack
,
With
an
entreaty
,
herein
further
shown
,
That
it
might
please
you
to
give
quiet
pass
Through
your
dominions
for
this
enterprise
,
On
such
regards
of
safety
and
allowance
As
therein
are
set
down
.
I
would
fain
prove
so
.
But
what
might
you
think
,
When
I
had
seen
this
hot
love
on
the
wing
(
As
I
perceived
it
,
I
must
tell
you
that
,
Before
my
daughter
told
me
)
,
what
might
you
,
Or
my
dear
Majesty
your
queen
here
,
think
,
If
I
had
played
the
desk
or
table-book
Or
given
my
heart
a
winking
,
mute
and
dumb
,
Or
looked
upon
this
love
with
idle
sight
?
What
might
you
think
?
No
,
I
went
round
to
work
,
And
my
young
mistress
thus
I
did
bespeak
:
Lord
Hamlet
is
a
prince
,
out
of
thy
star
.
This
must
not
be
.
And
then
I
prescripts
gave
her
,
That
she
should
lock
herself
from
his
resort
,
Admit
no
messengers
,
receive
no
tokens
;
Which
done
,
she
took
the
fruits
of
my
advice
,
And
he
,
repelled
(
a
short
tale
to
make
)
,
Fell
into
a
sadness
,
then
into
a
fast
,
Thence
to
a
watch
,
thence
into
a
weakness
,
Thence
to
a
lightness
,
and
,
by
this
declension
,
Into
the
madness
wherein
now
he
raves
And
all
we
mourn
for
.
At
such
a
time
I’ll
loose
my
daughter
to
him
.
Be
you
and
I
behind
an
arras
then
.
Mark
the
encounter
.
If
he
love
her
not
,
And
be
not
from
his
reason
fall’n
thereon
,
Let
me
be
no
assistant
for
a
state
,
But
keep
a
farm
and
carters
.
But
look
where
sadly
the
poor
wretch
comes
reading
.
Let
her
not
walk
i’
th’
sun
.
Conception
is
a
blessing
,
but
,
as
your
daughter
may
conceive
,
friend
,
look
to
’t
.
Anything
but
to
th’
purpose
.
You
were
sent
for
,
and
there
is
a
kind
of
confession
in
your
looks
which
your
modesties
have
not
craft
enough
to
color
.
I
know
the
good
king
and
queen
have
sent
for
you
.
I
will
tell
you
why
;
so
shall
my
anticipation
prevent
your
discovery
,
and
your
secrecy
to
the
King
and
Queen
molt
no
feather
.
I
have
of
late
,
but
wherefore
I
know
not
,
lost
all
my
mirth
,
forgone
all
custom
of
exercises
,
and
,
indeed
,
it
goes
so
heavily
with
my
disposition
that
this
goodly
frame
,
the
Earth
earth
,
seems
to
me
a
sterile
promontory
;
this
most
excellent
canopy
,
the
air
,
look
you
,
this
brave
o’erhanging
firmament
,
this
majestical
roof
,
fretted
with
golden
fire
—
why
,
it
appeareth
nothing
to
me
but
a
foul
and
pestilent
congregation
of
vapors
.
What
a
piece
of
work
is
a
man
,
how
noble
in
reason
,
how
infinite
in
faculties
,
in
form
and
moving
how
express
and
admirable
;
in
action
how
like
an
angel
,
in
apprehension
how
like
a
god
:
the
beauty
of
the
world
,
the
paragon
of
animals
—
and
yet
,
to
me
,
what
is
this
quintessence
of
dust
?
Man
delights
not
me
,
no
,
nor
women
neither
,
though
by
your
smiling
you
seem
to
say
so
.
It
is
not
very
strange
;
for
my
uncle
is
King
of
Denmark
,
and
those
that
would
make
mouths
at
him
while
my
father
lived
give
twenty
,
forty
,
fifty
,
a
hundred
ducats
apiece
for
his
picture
in
little
.
’Sblood
,
there
is
something
in
this
more
than
natural
,
if
philosophy
could
find
it
out
.
Why
,
As
by
lot
,
God
wot
and
then
,
you
know
,
It
came
to
pass
,
as
most
like
it
was
—
the
first
row
of
the
pious
chanson
will
show
you
more
,
for
look
where
my
abridgment
comes
.
You
are
welcome
,
masters
;
welcome
all
.
—
I
am
glad
to
see
thee
well
.
—
Welcome
,
good
friends
.
—
O
my
old
friend
!
Why
,
thy
face
is
valanced
since
I
saw
thee
last
.
Com’st
thou
to
beard
me
in
Denmark
?
—
What
,
my
young
lady
and
mistress
!
By
’r
Lady
,
your
Ladyship
ladyship
is
nearer
to
heaven
than
when
I
saw
you
last
,
by
the
altitude
of
a
chopine
.
Pray
God
your
voice
,
like
a
piece
of
uncurrent
gold
,
be
not
cracked
within
the
ring
.
Masters
,
you
are
all
welcome
.
We’ll
e’en
to
’t
like
French
falconers
,
fly
at
anything
we
see
.
We’ll
have
a
speech
straight
.
Come
,
give
us
a
taste
of
your
quality
.
Come
,
a
passionate
speech
.
I
heard
thee
speak
me
a
speech
once
,
but
it
was
never
acted
,
or
,
if
it
was
,
not
above
once
;
for
the
play
,
I
remember
,
pleased
not
the
million
:
’twas
caviary
to
the
general
.
But
it
was
(
as
I
received
it
,
and
others
whose
judgments
in
such
matters
cried
in
the
top
of
mine
)
an
excellent
play
,
well
digested
in
the
scenes
,
set
down
with
as
much
modesty
as
cunning
.
I
remember
one
said
there
were
no
sallets
in
the
lines
to
make
the
matter
savory
,
nor
no
matter
in
the
phrase
that
might
indict
the
author
of
affection
affectation
,
but
called
it
an
honest
method
,
as
wholesome
as
sweet
and
,
by
very
much
,
more
handsome
than
fine
.
One
speech
in
’t
I
chiefly
loved
.
’Twas
Aeneas’
tale
to
Dido
,
and
thereabout
of
it
especially
when
he
speaks
of
Priam’s
slaughter
.
If
it
live
in
your
memory
,
begin
at
this
line
—
let
me
see
,
let
me
see
:
The
rugged
Pyrrhus
,
like
th’
Hyrcanian
beast
—
’tis
not
so
;
it
begins
with
Pyrrhus
:
The
rugged
Pyrrhus
,
he
whose
sable
arms
,
Black
as
his
purpose
,
did
the
night
resemble
When
he
lay
couchèd
in
th’
ominous
horse
,
Hath
now
this
dread
and
black
complexion
smeared
With
heraldry
more
dismal
.
Head
to
foot
,
Now
is
he
total
gules
,
horridly
tricked
With
blood
of
fathers
,
mothers
,
daughters
,
sons
,
Baked
and
impasted
with
the
parching
streets
,
That
lend
a
tyrannous
and
a
damnèd
light
To
their
lord’s
murder
.
Roasted
in
wrath
and
fire
,
And
thus
o’ersizèd
with
coagulate
gore
,
With
eyes
like
carbuncles
,
the
hellish
Pyrrhus
Old
grandsire
Priam
seeks
.
So
,
proceed
you
.
Look
whe’er
he
has
not
turned
his
color
and
has
tears
in
’s
eyes
.
Prithee
,
no
more
.
Very
well
.
Follow
that
lord
—
and
look
you
mock
him
not
.
My
good
friends
,
I’ll
leave
you
till
night
.
You
are
welcome
to
Elsinore
.
Ay
,
so
,
good-bye
to
you
.
Now
I
am
alone
.
O
,
what
a
rogue
and
peasant
slave
am
I
!
Is
it
not
monstrous
that
this
player
here
,
But
in
a
fiction
,
in
a
dream
of
passion
,
Could
force
his
soul
so
to
his
own
conceit
That
from
her
working
all
his
visage
wanned
,
Tears
in
his
eyes
,
distraction
in
his
aspect
,
A
broken
voice
,
and
his
whole
function
suiting
With
forms
to
his
conceit
—
and
all
for
nothing
!
For
Hecuba
!
What’s
Hecuba
to
him
,
or
he
to
Hecuba
,
That
he
should
weep
for
her
?
What
would
he
do
Had
he
the
motive
and
the
cue
for
passion
That
I
have
?
He
would
drown
the
stage
with
tears
And
cleave
the
general
ear
with
horrid
speech
,
Make
mad
the
guilty
and
appall
the
free
,
Confound
the
ignorant
and
amaze
indeed
The
very
faculties
of
eyes
and
ears
.
Yet
I
,
A
dull
and
muddy-mettled
rascal
,
peak
Like
John-a-dreams
,
unpregnant
of
my
cause
,
And
can
say
nothing
—
no
,
not
for
a
king
Upon
whose
property
and
most
dear
life
A
damned
defeat
was
made
.
Am
I
a
coward
?
Who
calls
me
villain
?
breaks
my
pate
across
?
Plucks
off
my
beard
and
blows
it
in
my
face
?
Tweaks
me
by
the
nose
?
gives
me
the
lie
i’
th’
throat
As
deep
as
to
the
lungs
?
Who
does
me
this
?
Ha
!
’Swounds
,
I
should
take
it
!
For
it
cannot
be
But
I
am
pigeon-livered
and
lack
gall
To
make
oppression
bitter
,
or
ere
this
I
should
have
fatted
all
the
region
kites
With
this
slave’s
offal
.
Bloody
,
bawdy
villain
!
Remorseless
,
treacherous
,
lecherous
,
kindless
villain
!
O
vengeance
!
Why
,
what
an
ass
am
I
!
This
is
most
brave
,
That
I
,
the
son
of
a
dear
father
murdered
,
Prompted
to
my
revenge
by
heaven
and
hell
,
Must
,
like
a
whore
,
unpack
my
heart
with
words
And
fall
a-cursing
like
a
very
drab
,
A
stallion
scullion
!
Fie
upon
’t
!
Foh
!
About
,
my
brains
!
—
Hum
,
I
have
heard
That
guilty
creatures
sitting
at
a
play
Have
,
by
the
very
cunning
of
the
scene
,
Been
struck
so
to
the
soul
that
presently
They
have
proclaimed
their
malefactions
;
.
For
murder
,
though
it
have
no
tongue
,
will
speak
With
most
miraculous
organ
.
I’ll
have
these
players
Play
something
like
the
murder
of
my
father
Before
mine
uncle
.
I’ll
observe
his
looks
;
I’ll
tent
him
to
the
quick
.
If
he
do
blench
,
I
know
my
course
.
The
spirit
that
I
have
seen
May
be
a
devil
,
and
the
devil
hath
power
T’
assume
a
pleasing
shape
;
yea
,
and
perhaps
,
Out
of
my
weakness
and
my
melancholy
,
As
he
is
very
potent
with
such
spirits
,
Abuses
me
to
damn
me
.
I’ll
have
grounds
More
relative
than
this
.
The
play’s
the
thing
Wherein
I’ll
catch
the
conscience
of
the
King
.
Nor
do
we
find
him
forward
to
be
sounded
,
But
with
a
crafty
madness
keeps
aloof
When
we
would
bring
him
on
to
some
confession
Of
his
true
state
.
Nay
,
do
not
think
I
flatter
,
For
what
advancement
may
I
hope
from
thee
That
no
revenue
hast
but
thy
good
spirits
To
feed
and
clothe
thee
?
Why
should
the
poor
be
flattered
?
No
,
let
the
candied
tongue
lick
absurd
pomp
And
crook
the
pregnant
hinges
of
the
knee
Where
thrift
may
follow
fawning
.
Dost
thou
hear
?
Since
my
dear
soul
was
mistress
of
her
choice
And
could
of
men
distinguish
,
her
election
Hath
sealed
thee
for
herself
.
For
thou
hast
been
As
one
in
suffering
all
that
suffers
nothing
,
A
man
that
Fortune’s
buffets
and
rewards
Hast
ta’en
with
equal
thanks
;
and
blessed
are
those
Whose
blood
and
judgment
are
so
well
commeddled
That
they
are
not
a
pipe
for
Fortune’s
finger
To
sound
what
stop
she
please
.
Give
me
that
man
That
is
not
passion’s
slave
,
and
I
will
wear
him
In
my
heart’s
core
,
ay
,
in
my
heart
of
heart
,
As
I
do
thee
.
—
Something
too
much
of
this
.
—
There
is
a
play
tonight
before
the
King
.
One
scene
of
it
comes
near
the
circumstance
Which
I
have
told
thee
of
my
father’s
death
.
I
prithee
,
when
thou
seest
that
act
afoot
,
Even
with
the
very
comment
of
thy
soul
Observe
my
uncle
.
If
his
occulted
guilt
Do
not
itself
unkennel
in
one
speech
,
It
is
a
damnèd
ghost
that
we
have
seen
,
And
my
imaginations
are
as
foul
As
Vulcan’s
stithy
.
Give
him
heedful
note
,
For
I
mine
eyes
will
rivet
to
his
face
,
And
,
after
,
we
will
both
our
judgments
join
In
censure
of
his
seeming
.
O
God
,
your
only
jig-maker
.
What
should
a
man
do
but
be
merry
?
For
look
you
how
cheerfully
my
mother
looks
,
and
my
father
died
within
’s
two
hours
.
It
is
as
easy
as
lying
.
Govern
these
ventages
with
your
fingers
and
thumb
,
give
it
breath
with
your
mouth
,
and
it
will
discourse
most
eloquent
music
.
Look
you
,
these
are
the
stops
.
Why
,
look
you
now
,
how
unworthy
a
thing
you
make
of
me
!
You
would
play
upon
me
,
you
would
seem
to
know
my
stops
,
you
would
pluck
out
the
heart
of
my
mystery
,
you
would
sound
me
from
my
lowest
note
to
the
top
of
my
compass
;
and
there
is
much
music
,
excellent
voice
,
in
this
little
organ
,
yet
cannot
you
make
it
speak
.
’Sblood
,
do
you
think
I
am
easier
to
be
played
on
than
a
pipe
?
Call
me
what
instrument
you
will
,
though
you
can
fret
me
,
you
cannot
play
upon
me
.
God
bless
you
,
sir
.
By
and
by
is
easily
said
.
Leave
me
,
friends
.
’Tis
now
the
very
witching
time
of
night
,
When
churchyards
yawn
and
hell
itself
breathes
out
Contagion
to
this
world
.
Now
could
I
drink
hot
blood
And
do
such
bitter
business
as
the
day
Would
quake
to
look
on
.
Soft
,
now
to
my
mother
.
O
heart
,
lose
not
thy
nature
;
let
not
ever
The
soul
of
Nero
enter
this
firm
bosom
.
Let
me
be
cruel
,
not
unnatural
.
I
will
speak
daggers
to
her
,
but
use
none
.
My
tongue
and
soul
in
this
be
hypocrites
:
How
in
my
words
somever
she
be
shent
,
To
give
them
seals
never
,
my
soul
,
consent
.
Thanks
,
dear
my
lord
.
O
,
my
offense
is
rank
,
it
smells
to
heaven
;
It
hath
the
primal
eldest
curse
upon
’t
,
A
brother’s
murder
.
Pray
can
I
not
,
Though
inclination
be
as
sharp
as
will
.
My
stronger
guilt
defeats
my
strong
intent
,
And
,
like
a
man
to
double
business
bound
,
I
stand
in
pause
where
I
shall
first
begin
And
both
neglect
.
What
if
this
cursèd
hand
Were
thicker
than
itself
with
brother’s
blood
?
Is
there
not
rain
enough
in
the
sweet
heavens
To
wash
it
white
as
snow
?
Whereto
serves
mercy
But
to
confront
the
visage
of
offense
?
And
what’s
in
prayer
but
this
twofold
force
,
To
be
forestallèd
ere
we
come
to
fall
,
Or
pardoned
being
down
?
Then
I’ll
look
up
.
My
fault
is
past
.
But
,
O
,
what
form
of
prayer
Can
serve
my
turn
?
Forgive
me
my
foul
murder
?
That
cannot
be
,
since
I
am
still
possessed
Of
those
effects
for
which
I
did
the
murder
:
My
crown
,
mine
own
ambition
,
and
my
queen
.
May
one
be
pardoned
and
retain
th’
offense
?
In
the
corrupted
currents
of
this
world
,
Offense’s
gilded
hand
may
shove
by
justice
,
And
oft
’tis
seen
the
wicked
prize
itself
Buys
out
the
law
.
But
’tis
not
so
above
:
There
is
no
shuffling
;
there
the
action
lies
In
his
true
nature
,
and
we
ourselves
compelled
,
Even
to
the
teeth
and
forehead
of
our
faults
,
To
give
in
evidence
.
What
then
?
What
rests
?
Try
what
repentance
can
.
What
can
it
not
?
Yet
what
can
it
,
when
one
cannot
repent
?
O
wretched
state
!
O
bosom
black
as
death
!
O
limèd
soul
,
that
,
struggling
to
be
free
,
Art
more
engaged
!
Help
,
angels
!
Make
assay
.
Bow
,
stubborn
knees
,
and
heart
with
strings
of
steel
Be
soft
as
sinews
of
the
newborn
babe
.
All
may
be
well
.
He
will
come
straight
.
Look
you
lay
home
to
him
.
Tell
him
his
pranks
have
been
too
broad
to
bear
with
And
that
your
Grace
hath
screened
and
stood
between
Much
heat
and
him
.
I’ll
silence
me
even
here
.
Pray
you
,
be
round
with
him
.
O
,
what
a
rash
and
bloody
deed
is
this
!
A
bloody
deed
—
almost
as
bad
,
good
mother
,
As
kill
a
king
and
marry
with
his
brother
.
Look
here
upon
this
picture
and
on
this
,
The
counterfeit
presentment
of
two
brothers
.
See
what
a
grace
was
seated
on
this
brow
,
Hyperion’s
curls
,
the
front
of
Jove
himself
,
An
eye
like
Mars’
to
threaten
and
command
,
A
station
like
the
herald
Mercury
New-lighted
on
a
heaven-kissing
hill
,
A
combination
and
a
form
indeed
Where
every
god
did
seem
to
set
his
seal
To
give
the
world
assurance
of
a
man
.
This
was
your
husband
.
Look
you
now
what
follows
.
Here
is
your
husband
,
like
a
mildewed
ear
Blasting
his
wholesome
brother
.
Have
you
eyes
?
Could
you
on
this
fair
mountain
leave
to
feed
And
batten
on
this
moor
?
Ha
!
Have
you
eyes
?
You
cannot
call
it
love
,
for
at
your
age
The
heyday
in
the
blood
is
tame
,
it’s
humble
And
waits
upon
the
judgment
;
and
what
judgment
Would
step
from
this
to
this
?
Sense
sure
you
have
,
Else
could
you
not
have
motion
;
but
sure
that
sense
Is
apoplexed
;
for
madness
would
not
err
,
Nor
sense
to
ecstasy
was
ne’er
so
thralled
,
But
it
reserved
some
quantity
of
choice
To
serve
in
such
a
difference
.
What
devil
was
’t
That
thus
hath
cozened
you
at
hoodman-blind
?
Eyes
without
feeling
,
feeling
without
sight
,
Ears
without
hands
or
eyes
,
smelling
sans
all
,
Or
but
a
sickly
part
of
one
true
sense
Could
not
so
mope
.
O
shame
,
where
is
thy
blush
?
Rebellious
hell
,
If
thou
canst
mutine
in
a
matron’s
bones
,
To
flaming
youth
let
virtue
be
as
wax
And
melt
in
her
own
fire
.
Proclaim
no
shame
When
the
compulsive
ardor
gives
the
charge
,
Since
frost
itself
as
actively
doth
burn
,
And
reason
panders
will
.
Do
not
forget
.
This
visitation
Is
but
to
whet
thy
almost
blunted
purpose
.
But
look
,
amazement
on
thy
mother
sits
.
O
,
step
between
her
and
her
fighting
soul
.
Conceit
in
weakest
bodies
strongest
works
.
Speak
to
her
,
Hamlet
.
Alas
,
how
is
’t
with
you
,
That
you
do
bend
your
eye
on
vacancy
And
with
th’
incorporal
air
do
hold
discourse
?
Forth
at
your
eyes
your
spirits
wildly
peep
,
And
,
as
the
sleeping
soldiers
in
th’
alarm
,
Your
bedded
hair
,
like
life
in
excrements
,
Start
up
and
stand
an
end
.
O
gentle
son
,
Upon
the
heat
and
flame
of
thy
distemper
Sprinkle
cool
patience
!
Whereon
do
you
look
?
On
him
,
on
him
!
Look
you
how
pale
he
glares
.
His
form
and
cause
conjoined
,
preaching
to
stones
,
Would
make
them
capable
.
Do
not
look
upon
me
,
Lest
with
this
piteous
action
you
convert
My
stern
effects
.
Then
what
I
have
to
do
Will
want
true
color
—
tears
perchance
for
blood
.
Why
,
look
you
there
,
look
how
it
steals
away
!
My
father
,
in
his
habit
as
he
lived
!
Look
where
he
goes
even
now
out
at
the
portal
!
O
heavy
deed
!
It
had
been
so
with
us
,
had
we
been
there
.
His
liberty
is
full
of
threats
to
all
—
To
you
yourself
,
to
us
,
to
everyone
.
Alas
,
how
shall
this
bloody
deed
be
answered
?
It
will
be
laid
to
us
,
whose
providence
Should
have
kept
short
,
restrained
,
and
out
of
haunt
This
mad
young
man
.
But
so
much
was
our
love
,
We
would
not
understand
what
was
most
fit
,
But
,
like
the
owner
of
a
foul
disease
,
To
keep
it
from
divulging
,
let
it
feed
Even
on
the
pith
of
life
.
Where
is
he
gone
?
I
have
sent
to
seek
him
and
to
find
the
body
.
How
dangerous
is
it
that
this
man
goes
loose
!
Yet
must
not
we
put
the
strong
law
on
him
.
He’s
loved
of
the
distracted
multitude
,
Who
like
not
in
their
judgment
,
but
their
eyes
;
And
,
where
’tis
so
,
th’
offender’s
scourge
is
weighed
,
But
never
the
offense
.
To
bear
all
smooth
and
even
,
This
sudden
sending
him
away
must
seem
Deliberate
pause
.
Diseases
desperate
grown
By
desperate
appliance
are
relieved
Or
not
at
all
.
How
now
,
what
hath
befallen
?
Follow
him
at
foot
;
tempt
him
with
speed
aboard
.
Delay
it
not
.
I’ll
have
him
hence
tonight
.
Away
,
for
everything
is
sealed
and
done
That
else
leans
on
th’
affair
.
Pray
you
,
make
haste
.
And
England
,
if
my
love
thou
hold’st
at
aught
(
As
my
great
power
thereof
may
give
thee
sense
,
Since
yet
thy
cicatrice
looks
raw
and
red
After
the
Danish
sword
,
and
thy
free
awe
Pays
homage
to
us
)
,
thou
mayst
not
coldly
set
Our
sovereign
process
,
which
imports
at
full
,
By
letters
congruing
to
that
effect
,
The
present
death
of
Hamlet
.
Do
it
,
England
,
For
like
the
hectic
in
my
blood
he
rages
,
And
thou
must
cure
me
.
Till
I
know
’tis
done
,
Howe’er
my
haps
,
my
joys
will
were
ne’er
begin
begun
.
I’ll
be
with
you
straight
.
Go
a
little
before
.
How
all
occasions
do
inform
against
me
And
spur
my
dull
revenge
.
What
is
a
man
If
his
chief
good
and
market
of
his
time
Be
but
to
sleep
and
feed
?
A
beast
,
no
more
.
Sure
He
that
made
us
with
such
large
discourse
,
Looking
before
and
after
,
gave
us
not
That
capability
and
godlike
reason
To
fust
in
us
unused
.
Now
whether
it
be
Bestial
oblivion
or
some
craven
scruple
Of
thinking
too
precisely
on
th’
event
(
A
thought
which
,
quartered
,
hath
but
one
part
wisdom
And
ever
three
parts
coward
)
,
I
do
not
know
Why
yet
I
live
to
say
This
thing’s
to
do
,
Sith
I
have
cause
,
and
will
,
and
strength
,
and
means
To
do
’t
.
Examples
gross
as
Earth
earth
exhort
me
:
Witness
this
army
of
such
mass
and
charge
,
Led
by
a
delicate
and
tender
prince
,
Whose
spirit
with
divine
ambition
puffed
Makes
mouths
at
the
invisible
event
,
Exposing
what
is
mortal
and
unsure
To
all
that
fortune
,
death
,
and
danger
dare
,
Even
for
an
eggshell
.
Rightly
to
be
great
Is
not
to
stir
without
great
argument
,
But
greatly
to
find
quarrel
in
a
straw
When
honor’s
at
the
stake
.
How
stand
I
,
then
,
That
have
a
father
killed
,
a
mother
stained
,
Excitements
of
my
reason
and
my
blood
,
And
let
all
sleep
,
while
to
my
shame
I
see
The
imminent
death
of
twenty
thousand
men
That
for
a
fantasy
and
trick
of
fame
Go
to
their
graves
like
beds
,
fight
for
a
plot
Whereon
the
numbers
cannot
try
the
cause
,
Which
is
not
tomb
enough
and
continent
To
hide
the
slain
?
O
,
from
this
time
forth
My
thoughts
be
bloody
or
be
nothing
worth
!
Alas , look here , my lord .
That
drop
of
blood
that’s
calm
proclaims
me
bastard
,
Cries
cuckold
to
my
father
,
brands
the
harlot
Even
here
between
the
chaste
unsmirchèd
brow
Of
my
true
mother
.
What
is
the
cause
,
Laertes
,
That
thy
rebellion
looks
so
giant-like
?
—
Let
him
go
,
Gertrude
.
Do
not
fear
our
person
.
There’s
such
divinity
doth
hedge
a
king
That
treason
can
but
peep
to
what
it
would
,
Acts
little
of
his
will
.
—
Tell
me
,
Laertes
,
Why
thou
art
thus
incensed
.
—
Let
him
go
,
Gertrude
.
—
Speak
,
man
.
To
his
good
friends
thus
wide
I’ll
ope
my
arms
And
,
like
the
kind
life-rend’ring
pelican
,
Repast
them
with
my
blood
.
Horatio
,
when
thou
shalt
have
overlooked
this
,
give
these
fellows
some
means
to
the
King
.
They
have
letters
for
him
.
Ere
we
were
two
days
old
at
sea
,
a
pirate
of
very
warlike
appointment
gave
us
chase
.
Finding
ourselves
too
slow
of
sail
,
we
put
on
a
compelled
valor
,
and
in
the
grapple
I
boarded
them
.
On
the
instant
,
they
got
clear
of
our
ship
;
so
I
alone
became
their
prisoner
.
They
have
dealt
with
me
like
thieves
of
mercy
,
but
they
knew
what
they
did
:
I
am
to
do
a
good
turn
for
them
.
Let
the
King
have
the
letters
I
have
sent
,
and
repair
thou
to
me
with
as
much
speed
as
thou
wouldst
fly
death
.
I
have
words
to
speak
in
thine
ear
will
make
thee
dumb
;
yet
are
they
much
too
light
for
the
bore
of
the
matter
.
These
good
fellows
will
bring
thee
where
I
am
.
Rosencrantz
and
Guildenstern
hold
their
course
for
England
;
of
them
I
have
much
to
tell
thee
.
Farewell
.
He
that
thou
knowest
thine
,
Hamlet
.
Come
,
I
will
give
you
way
for
these
your
letters
And
do
’t
the
speedier
that
you
may
direct
me
To
him
from
whom
you
brought
them
.
O
,
for
two
special
reasons
,
Which
may
to
you
perhaps
seem
much
unsinewed
,
But
yet
to
me
they’re
strong
.
The
Queen
his
mother
Lives
almost
by
his
looks
,
and
for
myself
(
My
virtue
or
my
plague
,
be
it
either
which
)
,
She
is
so
conjunctive
to
my
life
and
soul
That
,
as
the
star
moves
not
but
in
his
sphere
,
I
could
not
but
by
her
.
The
other
motive
Why
to
a
public
count
I
might
not
go
Is
the
great
love
the
general
gender
bear
him
,
Who
,
dipping
all
his
faults
in
their
affection
,
Work
like
the
spring
that
turneth
wood
to
stone
,
Convert
his
gyves
to
graces
,
so
that
my
arrows
,
Too
slightly
timbered
for
so
loud
a
wind
,
Would
have
reverted
to
my
bow
again
,
But
not
where
I
have
aimed
them
.
I
will
do
’t
,
And
for
that
purpose
I’ll
anoint
my
sword
.
I
bought
an
unction
of
a
mountebank
So
mortal
that
,
but
dip
a
knife
in
it
,
Where
it
draws
blood
no
cataplasm
so
rare
,
Collected
from
all
simples
that
have
virtue
Under
the
moon
,
can
save
the
thing
from
death
That
is
but
scratched
withal
.
I’ll
touch
my
point
With
this
contagion
,
that
,
if
I
gall
him
slightly
,
It
may
be
death
.
Let’s
further
think
of
this
,
Weigh
what
convenience
both
of
time
and
means
May
fit
us
to
our
shape
.
If
this
should
fail
,
And
that
our
drift
look
through
our
bad
performance
,
’Twere
better
not
assayed
.
Therefore
this
project
Should
have
a
back
or
second
that
might
hold
If
this
did
blast
in
proof
.
Soft
,
let
me
see
.
We’ll
make
a
solemn
wager
on
your
cunnings
—
I
ha
’t
!
When
in
your
motion
you
are
hot
and
dry
(
As
make
your
bouts
more
violent
to
that
end
)
And
that
he
calls
for
drink
,
I’ll
have
prepared
him
A
chalice
for
the
nonce
,
whereon
but
sipping
,
If
he
by
chance
escape
your
venomed
stuck
,
Our
purpose
may
hold
there
.
—
But
stay
,
what
noise
?
Dost
thou
think
Alexander
looked
o’
this
fashion
i’
th’
earth
?
I
am
satisfied
in
nature
,
Whose
motive
in
this
case
should
stir
me
most
To
my
revenge
;
but
in
my
terms
of
honor
I
stand
aloof
and
will
no
reconcilement
Till
by
some
elder
masters
of
known
honor
I
have
a
voice
and
precedent
of
peace
To
keep
my
name
ungored
.
But
till
that
time
I
do
receive
your
offered
love
like
love
And
will
not
wrong
it
.
Look to the Queen there , ho !
Heaven
make
thee
free
of
it
.
I
follow
thee
.
—
I
am
dead
,
Horatio
.
—
Wretched
queen
,
adieu
.
—
You
that
look
pale
and
tremble
at
this
chance
,
That
are
but
mutes
or
audience
to
this
act
,
Had
I
but
time
(
as
this
fell
sergeant
,
Death
,
Is
strict
in
his
arrest
)
,
O
,
I
could
tell
you
—
But
let
it
be
.
—
Horatio
,
I
am
dead
.
Thou
livest
;
report
me
and
my
cause
aright
To
the
unsatisfied
.
This
quarry
cries
on
havoc
.
O
proud
Death
,
What
feast
is
toward
in
thine
eternal
cell
That
thou
so
many
princes
at
a
shot
So
bloodily
hast
struck
?
Not
from
his
mouth
,
Had
it
th’
ability
of
life
to
thank
you
.
He
never
gave
commandment
for
their
death
.
But
since
,
so
jump
upon
this
bloody
question
,
You
from
the
Polack
wars
,
and
you
from
England
,
Are
here
arrived
,
give
order
that
these
bodies
High
on
a
stage
be
placed
to
the
view
,
And
let
me
speak
to
th’
yet
unknowing
world
How
these
things
came
about
.
So
shall
you
hear
Of
carnal
,
bloody
,
and
unnatural
acts
,
Of
accidental
judgments
,
casual
slaughters
,
Of
deaths
put
on
by
cunning
and
forced
cause
,
And
,
in
this
upshot
,
purposes
mistook
Fall’n
on
th’
inventors’
heads
.
All
this
can
I
Truly
deliver
.
So
shaken
as
we
are
,
so
wan
with
care
,
Find
we
a
time
for
frighted
peace
to
pant
And
breathe
short-winded
accents
of
new
broils
To
be
commenced
in
strands
afar
remote
.
No
more
the
thirsty
entrance
of
this
soil
Shall
daub
her
lips
with
her
own
children’s
blood
.
No
more
shall
trenching
war
channel
her
fields
,
Nor
bruise
her
flow’rets
with
the
armèd
hoofs
Of
hostile
paces
.
Those
opposèd
eyes
,
Which
,
like
the
meteors
of
a
troubled
heaven
,
All
of
one
nature
,
of
one
substance
bred
,
Did
lately
meet
in
the
intestine
shock
And
furious
close
of
civil
butchery
,
Shall
now
,
in
mutual
well-beseeming
ranks
,
March
all
one
way
and
be
no
more
opposed
Against
acquaintance
,
kindred
,
and
allies
.
The
edge
of
war
,
like
an
ill-sheathèd
knife
,
No
more
shall
cut
his
master
.
Therefore
,
friends
,
As
far
as
to
the
sepulcher
of
Christ
—
Whose
soldier
now
,
under
whose
blessèd
cross
We
are
impressèd
and
engaged
to
fight
—
Forthwith
a
power
of
English
shall
we
levy
,
Whose
arms
were
molded
in
their
mothers’
womb
To
chase
these
pagans
in
those
holy
fields
Over
whose
acres
walked
those
blessèd
feet
Which
fourteen
hundred
years
ago
were
nailed
For
our
advantage
on
the
bitter
cross
.
But
this
our
purpose
now
is
twelve
month
old
,
And
bootless
’tis
to
tell
you
we
will
go
.
Therefor
we
meet
not
now
.
Then
let
me
hear
Of
you
,
my
gentle
cousin
Westmoreland
,
What
yesternight
our
council
did
decree
In
forwarding
this
dear
expedience
.
This
matched
with
other
did
,
my
gracious
lord
.
For
more
uneven
and
unwelcome
news
Came
from
the
north
,
and
thus
it
did
import
:
On
Holy-rood
Day
the
gallant
Hotspur
there
,
Young
Harry
Percy
,
and
brave
Archibald
,
That
ever
valiant
and
approvèd
Scot
,
At
Holmedon
met
,
where
they
did
spend
A
sad
and
bloody
hour
—
As
by
discharge
of
their
artillery
And
shape
of
likelihood
the
news
was
told
,
For
he
that
brought
them
,
in
the
very
heat
And
pride
of
their
contention
did
take
horse
,
Uncertain
of
the
issue
any
way
.
Here
is
a
dear
,
a
true-industrious
friend
,
Sir
Walter
Blunt
,
new
lighted
from
his
horse
,
Stained
with
the
variation
of
each
soil
Betwixt
that
Holmedon
and
this
seat
of
ours
,
And
he
hath
brought
us
smooth
and
welcome
news
.
The
Earl
of
Douglas
is
discomfited
;
Ten
thousand
bold
Scots
,
two-and-twenty
knights
,
Balked
in
their
own
blood
,
did
Sir
Walter
see
On
Holmedon’s
plains
.
Of
prisoners
Hotspur
took
Mordake
,
Earl
of
Fife
and
eldest
son
To
beaten
Douglas
,
and
the
Earl
of
Atholl
,
Of
Murray
,
Angus
,
and
Menteith
.
And
is
not
this
an
honorable
spoil
?
A
gallant
prize
?
Ha
,
cousin
,
is
it
not
?
Yea
,
there
thou
mak’st
me
sad
,
and
mak’st
me
sin
In
envy
that
my
Lord
Northumberland
Should
be
the
father
to
so
blest
a
son
,
A
son
who
is
the
theme
of
Honor’s
tongue
,
Amongst
a
grove
the
very
straightest
plant
,
Who
is
sweet
Fortune’s
minion
and
her
pride
;
Whilst
I
,
by
looking
on
the
praise
of
him
,
See
riot
and
dishonor
stain
the
brow
Of
my
young
Harry
.
O
,
that
it
could
be
proved
That
some
night-tripping
fairy
had
exchanged
In
cradle-clothes
our
children
where
they
lay
,
And
called
mine
Percy
,
his
Plantagenet
!
Then
would
I
have
his
Harry
,
and
he
mine
.
But
let
him
from
my
thoughts
.
What
think
you
,
coz
,
Of
this
young
Percy’s
pride
?
The
prisoners
Which
he
in
this
adventure
hath
surprised
To
his
own
use
he
keeps
,
and
sends
me
word
I
shall
have
none
but
Mordake
,
Earl
of
Fife
.
Yea
,
for
obtaining
of
suits
,
whereof
the
hangman
hath
no
lean
wardrobe
.
’Sblood
,
I
am
as
melancholy
as
a
gib
cat
or
a
lugged
bear
.
There’s
neither
honesty
,
manhood
,
nor
good
fellowship
in
thee
,
nor
thou
cam’st
not
of
the
blood
royal
,
if
thou
darest
not
stand
for
ten
shillings
.
I
know
you
all
,
and
will
awhile
uphold
The
unyoked
humor
of
your
idleness
.
Yet
herein
will
I
imitate
the
sun
,
Who
doth
permit
the
base
contagious
clouds
To
smother
up
his
beauty
from
the
world
,
That
,
when
he
please
again
to
be
himself
,
Being
wanted
,
he
may
be
more
wondered
at
By
breaking
through
the
foul
and
ugly
mists
Of
vapors
that
did
seem
to
strangle
him
.
If
all
the
year
were
playing
holidays
,
To
sport
would
be
as
tedious
as
to
work
,
But
when
they
seldom
come
,
they
wished-for
come
,
And
nothing
pleaseth
but
rare
accidents
.
So
when
this
loose
behavior
I
throw
off
And
pay
the
debt
I
never
promisèd
,
By
how
much
better
than
my
word
I
am
,
By
so
much
shall
I
falsify
men’s
hopes
;
And
,
like
bright
metal
on
a
sullen
ground
,
My
reformation
,
glitt’ring
o’er
my
fault
,
Shall
show
more
goodly
and
attract
more
eyes
Than
that
which
hath
no
foil
to
set
it
off
.
I’ll
so
offend
to
make
offense
a
skill
,
Redeeming
time
when
men
think
least
I
will
.
My
blood
hath
been
too
cold
and
temperate
,
Unapt
to
stir
at
these
indignities
,
And
you
have
found
me
,
for
accordingly
You
tread
upon
my
patience
.
But
be
sure
I
will
from
henceforth
rather
be
myself
,
Mighty
and
to
be
feared
,
than
my
condition
,
Which
hath
been
smooth
as
oil
,
soft
as
young
down
,
And
therefore
lost
that
title
of
respect
Which
the
proud
soul
ne’er
pays
but
to
the
proud
.
Revolted
Mortimer
!
He
never
did
fall
off
,
my
sovereign
liege
,
But
by
the
chance
of
war
.
To
prove
that
true
Needs
no
more
but
one
tongue
for
all
those
wounds
,
Those
mouthèd
wounds
,
which
valiantly
he
took
When
on
the
gentle
Severn’s
sedgy
bank
In
single
opposition
hand
to
hand
He
did
confound
the
best
part
of
an
hour
In
changing
hardiment
with
great
Glendower
.
Three
times
they
breathed
,
and
three
times
did
they
drink
,
Upon
agreement
,
of
swift
Severn’s
flood
,
Who
then
,
affrighted
with
their
bloody
looks
,
Ran
fearfully
among
the
trembling
reeds
And
hid
his
crisp
head
in
the
hollow
bank
,
Blood-stainèd
with
these
valiant
combatants
.
Never
did
bare
and
rotten
policy
Color
her
working
with
such
deadly
wounds
,
Nor
never
could
the
noble
Mortimer
Receive
so
many
,
and
all
willingly
.
Then
let
not
him
be
slandered
with
revolt
.
Speak
of
Mortimer
?
Zounds
,
I
will
speak
of
him
,
and
let
my
soul
Want
mercy
if
I
do
not
join
with
him
.
Yea
,
on
his
part
I’ll
empty
all
these
veins
And
shed
my
dear
blood
drop
by
drop
in
the
dust
,
But
I
will
lift
the
downtrod
Mortimer
As
high
in
the
air
as
this
unthankful
king
,
As
this
ingrate
and
cankered
Bolingbroke
.
He
will
forsooth
have
all
my
prisoners
,
And
when
I
urged
the
ransom
once
again
Of
my
wife’s
brother
,
then
his
cheek
looked
pale
,
And
on
my
face
he
turned
an
eye
of
death
,
Trembling
even
at
the
name
of
Mortimer
.
I
cannot
blame
him
.
Was
not
he
proclaimed
By
Richard
,
that
dead
is
,
the
next
of
blood
?
Nay
then
,
I
cannot
blame
his
cousin
king
That
wished
him
on
the
barren
mountains
starve
.
But
shall
it
be
that
you
that
set
the
crown
Upon
the
head
of
this
forgetful
man
And
for
his
sake
wear
the
detested
blot
Of
murderous
subornation
—
shall
it
be
That
you
a
world
of
curses
undergo
,
Being
the
agents
or
base
second
means
,
The
cords
,
the
ladder
,
or
the
hangman
rather
?
O
,
pardon
me
that
I
descend
so
low
To
show
the
line
and
the
predicament
Wherein
you
range
under
this
subtle
king
.
Shall
it
for
shame
be
spoken
in
these
days
,
Or
fill
up
chronicles
in
time
to
come
,
That
men
of
your
nobility
and
power
Did
gage
them
both
in
an
unjust
behalf
(
As
both
of
you
,
God
pardon
it
,
have
done
)
To
put
down
Richard
,
that
sweet
lovely
rose
,
And
plant
this
thorn
,
this
canker
,
Bolingbroke
?
And
shall
it
in
more
shame
be
further
spoken
That
you
are
fooled
,
discarded
,
and
shook
off
By
him
for
whom
these
shames
you
underwent
?
No
,
yet
time
serves
wherein
you
may
redeem
Your
banished
honors
and
restore
yourselves
Into
the
good
thoughts
of
the
world
again
,
Revenge
the
jeering
and
disdained
contempt
Of
this
proud
king
,
who
studies
day
and
night
To
answer
all
the
debt
he
owes
to
you
Even
with
the
bloody
payment
of
your
deaths
.
Therefore
I
say
—
If
he
fall
in
,
good
night
,
or
sink
or
swim
!
Send
danger
from
the
east
unto
the
west
,
So
honor
cross
it
from
the
north
to
south
,
And
let
them
grapple
.
O
,
the
blood
more
stirs
To
rouse
a
lion
than
to
start
a
hare
!
Why
,
look
you
,
I
am
whipped
and
scourged
with
rods
,
Nettled
and
stung
with
pismires
,
when
I
hear
Of
this
vile
politician
,
Bolingbroke
.
In
Richard’s
time
—
what
do
you
call
the
place
?
A
plague
upon
it
!
It
is
in
Gloucestershire
.
’Twas
where
the
madcap
duke
his
uncle
kept
,
His
uncle
York
,
where
I
first
bowed
my
knee
Unto
this
king
of
smiles
,
this
Bolingbroke
.
’Sblood
,
when
you
and
he
came
back
from
Ravenspurgh
.
You
say
true
.
Why
,
what
a
candy
deal
of
courtesy
This
fawning
greyhound
then
did
proffer
me
:
Look
when
his
infant
fortune
came
to
age
,
And
gentle
Harry
Percy
,
and
kind
cousin
.
O
,
the
devil
take
such
cozeners
!
—
God
forgive
me
!
Good
uncle
,
tell
your
tale
.
I
have
done
.
And
’tis
no
little
reason
bids
us
speed
To
save
our
heads
by
raising
of
a
head
,
For
bear
ourselves
as
even
as
we
can
,
The
King
will
always
think
him
in
our
debt
,
And
think
we
think
ourselves
unsatisfied
,
Till
he
hath
found
a
time
to
pay
us
home
.
And
see
already
how
he
doth
begin
To
make
us
strangers
to
his
looks
of
love
.
What
talkest
thou
to
me
of
the
hangman
?
If
I
hang
,
I’ll
make
a
fat
pair
of
gallows
,
for
if
I
hang
,
old
Sir
John
hangs
with
me
,
and
thou
knowest
he
is
no
starveling
.
Tut
,
there
are
other
Troyans
that
thou
dream’st
not
of
,
the
which
for
sport
sake
are
content
to
do
the
profession
some
grace
,
that
would
,
if
matters
should
be
looked
into
,
for
their
own
credit
sake
make
all
whole
.
I
am
joined
with
no
foot-land-rakers
,
no
long-staff
sixpenny
strikers
,
none
of
these
mad
mustachio
purple-hued
malt-worms
,
but
with
nobility
and
tranquillity
,
burgomasters
and
great
oneyers
,
such
as
can
hold
in
,
such
as
will
strike
sooner
than
speak
,
and
speak
sooner
than
drink
,
and
drink
sooner
than
pray
,
and
yet
,
zounds
,
I
lie
,
for
they
pray
continually
to
their
saint
the
commonwealth
,
or
rather
not
pray
to
her
but
prey
on
her
,
for
they
ride
up
and
down
on
her
and
make
her
their
boots
.
Have
you
any
levers
to
lift
me
up
again
being
down
?
’Sblood
,
I’ll
not
bear
my
own
flesh
so
far
afoot
again
for
all
the
coin
in
thy
father’s
Exchequer
.
What
a
plague
mean
you
to
colt
me
thus
?
O
my
good
lord
,
why
are
you
thus
alone
?
For
what
offense
have
I
this
fortnight
been
A
banished
woman
from
my
Harry’s
bed
?
Tell
me
,
sweet
lord
,
what
is
’t
that
takes
from
thee
Thy
stomach
,
pleasure
,
and
thy
golden
sleep
?
Why
dost
thou
bend
thine
eyes
upon
the
earth
And
start
so
often
when
thou
sit’st
alone
?
Why
hast
thou
lost
the
fresh
blood
in
thy
cheeks
And
given
my
treasures
and
my
rights
of
thee
To
thick-eyed
musing
and
curst
melancholy
?
In
thy
faint
slumbers
I
by
thee
have
watched
,
And
heard
thee
murmur
tales
of
iron
wars
,
Speak
terms
of
manage
to
thy
bounding
steed
,
Cry
Courage
!
To
the
field
!
And
thou
hast
talked
Of
sallies
and
retires
,
of
trenches
,
tents
,
Of
palisadoes
,
frontiers
,
parapets
,
Of
basilisks
,
of
cannon
,
culverin
,
Of
prisoners’
ransom
,
and
of
soldiers
slain
,
And
all
the
currents
of
a
heady
fight
.
Thy
spirit
within
thee
hath
been
so
at
war
,
And
thus
hath
so
bestirred
thee
in
thy
sleep
,
That
beads
of
sweat
have
stood
upon
thy
brow
Like
bubbles
in
a
late-disturbèd
stream
,
And
in
thy
face
strange
motions
have
appeared
,
Such
as
we
see
when
men
restrain
their
breath
On
some
great
sudden
hest
.
O
,
what
portents
are
these
?
Some
heavy
business
hath
my
lord
in
hand
,
And
I
must
know
it
,
else
he
loves
me
not
.
Away
!
Away
,
you
trifler
.
Love
,
I
love
thee
not
.
I
care
not
for
thee
,
Kate
.
This
is
no
world
To
play
with
mammets
and
to
tilt
with
lips
.
We
must
have
bloody
noses
and
cracked
crowns
,
And
pass
them
current
too
.
—
Gods
me
,
my
horse
!
—
What
say’st
thou
,
Kate
?
What
wouldst
thou
have
with
me
?
Anon
,
anon
,
sir
.
—
Look
down
into
the
Pomgarnet
,
Ralph
.
Why
then
,
your
brown
bastard
is
your
only
drink
,
for
look
you
,
Francis
,
your
white
canvas
doublet
will
sully
.
In
Barbary
,
sir
,
it
cannot
come
to
so
much
.
What
,
stand’st
thou
still
and
hear’st
such
a
calling
?
Look
to
the
guests
within
.
My
lord
,
old
Sir
John
with
half
a
dozen
more
are
at
the
door
.
Shall
I
let
them
in
?
’Sblood
,
you
starveling
,
you
elfskin
,
you
dried
neat’s
tongue
,
you
bull’s
pizzle
,
you
stockfish
!
O
,
for
breath
to
utter
what
is
like
thee
!
You
tailor’s
yard
,
you
sheath
,
you
bowcase
,
you
vile
standing
tuck
—
Yea
,
and
to
tickle
our
noses
with
speargrass
to
make
them
bleed
,
and
then
to
beslubber
our
garments
with
it
,
and
swear
it
was
the
blood
of
true
men
.
I
did
that
I
did
not
this
seven
year
before
:
I
blushed
to
hear
his
monstrous
devices
.
By
the
Mass
,
thou
sayest
true
.
It
is
like
we
shall
have
good
trading
that
way
.
But
tell
me
,
Hal
,
art
not
thou
horrible
afeard
?
Thou
being
heir
apparent
,
could
the
world
pick
thee
out
three
such
enemies
again
as
that
fiend
Douglas
,
that
spirit
Percy
,
and
that
devil
Glendower
?
Art
thou
not
horribly
afraid
?
Doth
not
thy
blood
thrill
at
it
?
Well
,
an
the
fire
of
grace
be
not
quite
out
of
thee
,
now
shalt
thou
be
moved
.
—
Give
me
a
cup
of
sack
to
make
my
eyes
look
red
,
that
it
may
be
thought
I
have
wept
,
for
I
must
speak
in
passion
,
and
I
will
do
it
in
King
Cambyses’
vein
.
For
God’s
sake
,
lords
,
convey
my
tristful
queen
,
For
tears
do
stop
the
floodgates
of
her
eyes
.
A
goodly
portly
man
,
i’
faith
,
and
a
corpulent
;
of
a
cheerful
look
,
a
pleasing
eye
,
and
a
most
noble
carriage
,
and
,
as
I
think
,
his
age
some
fifty
,
or
,
by
’r
Lady
,
inclining
to
threescore
;
and
now
I
remember
me
,
his
name
is
Falstaff
.
If
that
man
should
be
lewdly
given
,
he
deceiveth
me
,
for
,
Harry
,
I
see
virtue
in
his
looks
.
If
then
the
tree
may
be
known
by
the
fruit
,
as
the
fruit
by
the
tree
,
then
peremptorily
I
speak
it
:
there
is
virtue
in
that
Falstaff
;
him
keep
with
,
the
rest
banish
.
And
tell
me
now
,
thou
naughty
varlet
,
tell
me
where
hast
thou
been
this
month
?
’Sblood
,
my
lord
,
they
are
false
.
—
Nay
,
I’ll
tickle
you
for
a
young
prince
,
i’
faith
.
Swearest
thou
?
Ungracious
boy
,
henceforth
ne’er
look
on
me
.
Thou
art
violently
carried
away
from
grace
.
There
is
a
devil
haunts
thee
in
the
likeness
of
an
old
fat
man
.
A
tun
of
man
is
thy
companion
.
Why
dost
thou
converse
with
that
trunk
of
humors
,
that
bolting-hutch
of
beastliness
,
that
swollen
parcel
of
dropsies
,
that
huge
bombard
of
sack
,
that
stuffed
cloakbag
of
guts
,
that
roasted
Manningtree
ox
with
the
pudding
in
his
belly
,
that
reverend
Vice
,
that
gray
iniquity
,
that
father
ruffian
,
that
vanity
in
years
?
Wherein
is
he
good
,
but
to
taste
sack
and
drink
it
?
Wherein
neat
and
cleanly
but
to
carve
a
capon
and
eat
it
?
Wherein
cunning
but
in
craft
?
Wherein
crafty
but
in
villainy
?
Wherein
villainous
but
in
all
things
?
Wherein
worthy
but
in
nothing
?
No
,
here
it
is
.
Sit
,
cousin
Percy
,
Sit
,
good
cousin
Hotspur
,
for
by
that
name
As
oft
as
Lancaster
doth
speak
of
you
His
cheek
looks
pale
,
and
with
a
rising
sigh
He
wisheth
you
in
heaven
.
Methinks
my
moiety
,
north
from
Burton
here
,
In
quantity
equals
not
one
of
yours
.
See
how
this
river
comes
me
cranking
in
And
cuts
me
from
the
best
of
all
my
land
A
huge
half-moon
,
a
monstrous
cantle
out
.
I’ll
have
the
current
in
this
place
dammed
up
,
And
here
the
smug
and
silver
Trent
shall
run
In
a
new
channel
,
fair
and
evenly
.
It
shall
not
wind
with
such
a
deep
indent
To
rob
me
of
so
rich
a
bottom
here
.
In
faith
,
my
lord
,
you
are
too
willful-blame
,
And
,
since
your
coming
hither
,
have
done
enough
To
put
him
quite
besides
his
patience
.
You
must
needs
learn
,
lord
,
to
amend
this
fault
.
Though
sometimes
it
show
greatness
,
courage
,
blood
—
And
that’s
the
dearest
grace
it
renders
you
—
Yet
oftentimes
it
doth
present
harsh
rage
,
Defect
of
manners
,
want
of
government
,
Pride
,
haughtiness
,
opinion
,
and
disdain
,
The
least
of
which
,
haunting
a
nobleman
,
Loseth
men’s
hearts
and
leaves
behind
a
stain
Upon
the
beauty
of
all
parts
besides
,
Beguiling
them
of
commendation
.
I
understand
thy
looks
.
That
pretty
Welsh
Which
thou
pourest
down
from
these
swelling
heavens
I
am
too
perfect
in
,
and
but
for
shame
In
such
a
parley
should
I
answer
thee
.
I
understand
thy
kisses
,
and
thou
mine
,
And
that’s
a
feeling
disputation
;
But
I
will
never
be
a
truant
,
love
,
Till
I
have
learned
thy
language
;
for
thy
tongue
Makes
Welsh
as
sweet
as
ditties
highly
penned
,
Sung
by
a
fair
queen
in
a
summer’s
bower
,
With
ravishing
division
,
to
her
lute
.
She
bids
you
on
the
wanton
rushes
lay
you
down
And
rest
your
gentle
head
upon
her
lap
,
And
she
will
sing
the
song
that
pleaseth
you
,
And
on
your
eyelids
crown
the
god
of
sleep
,
Charming
your
blood
with
pleasing
heaviness
,
Making
such
difference
’twixt
wake
and
sleep
As
is
the
difference
betwixt
day
and
night
The
hour
before
the
heavenly
harnessed
team
Begins
his
golden
progress
in
the
east
.
Lords
,
give
us
leave
;
the
Prince
of
Wales
and
I
Must
have
some
private
conference
,
but
be
near
at
hand
,
For
we
shall
presently
have
need
of
you
.
I
know
not
whether
God
will
have
it
so
For
some
displeasing
service
I
have
done
,
That
,
in
His
secret
doom
,
out
of
my
blood
He’ll
breed
revengement
and
a
scourge
for
me
.
But
thou
dost
in
thy
passages
of
life
Make
me
believe
that
thou
art
only
marked
For
the
hot
vengeance
and
the
rod
of
heaven
To
punish
my
mistreadings
.
Tell
me
else
,
Could
such
inordinate
and
low
desires
,
Such
poor
,
such
bare
,
such
lewd
,
such
mean
attempts
,
Such
barren
pleasures
,
rude
society
As
thou
art
matched
withal
,
and
grafted
to
,
Accompany
the
greatness
of
thy
blood
,
And
hold
their
level
with
thy
princely
heart
?
God
pardon
thee
.
Yet
let
me
wonder
,
Harry
,
At
thy
affections
,
which
do
hold
a
wing
Quite
from
the
flight
of
all
thy
ancestors
.
Thy
place
in
council
thou
hast
rudely
lost
,
Which
by
thy
younger
brother
is
supplied
,
And
art
almost
an
alien
to
the
hearts
Of
all
the
court
and
princes
of
my
blood
.
The
hope
and
expectation
of
thy
time
Is
ruined
,
and
the
soul
of
every
man
Prophetically
do
forethink
thy
fall
.
Had
I
so
lavish
of
my
presence
been
,
So
common-hackneyed
in
the
eyes
of
men
,
So
stale
and
cheap
to
vulgar
company
,
Opinion
,
that
did
help
me
to
the
crown
,
Had
still
kept
loyal
to
possession
And
left
me
in
reputeless
banishment
,
A
fellow
of
no
mark
nor
likelihood
.
By
being
seldom
seen
,
I
could
not
stir
But
like
a
comet
I
was
wondered
at
,
That
men
would
tell
their
children
This
is
he
.
Others
would
say
Where
?
Which
is
Bolingbroke
?
And
then
I
stole
all
courtesy
from
heaven
,
And
dressed
myself
in
such
humility
That
I
did
pluck
allegiance
from
men’s
hearts
,
Loud
shouts
and
salutations
from
their
mouths
,
Even
in
the
presence
of
the
crownèd
king
.
Thus
did
I
keep
my
person
fresh
and
new
,
My
presence
,
like
a
robe
pontifical
,
Ne’er
seen
but
wondered
at
,
and
so
my
state
,
Seldom
but
sumptuous
,
showed
like
a
feast
And
won
by
rareness
such
solemnity
.
The
skipping
king
,
he
ambled
up
and
down
With
shallow
jesters
and
rash
bavin
wits
,
Soon
kindled
and
soon
burnt
;
carded
his
state
,
Mingled
his
royalty
with
cap’ring
fools
,
Had
his
great
name
profanèd
with
their
scorns
,
And
gave
his
countenance
,
against
his
name
,
To
laugh
at
gibing
boys
and
stand
the
push
Of
every
beardless
vain
comparative
;
Grew
a
companion
to
the
common
streets
,
Enfeoffed
himself
to
popularity
,
That
,
being
daily
swallowed
by
men’s
eyes
,
They
surfeited
with
honey
and
began
To
loathe
the
taste
of
sweetness
,
whereof
a
little
More
than
a
little
is
by
much
too
much
.
So
,
when
he
had
occasion
to
be
seen
,
He
was
but
as
the
cuckoo
is
in
June
,
Heard
,
not
regarded
;
seen
,
but
with
such
eyes
As
,
sick
and
blunted
with
community
,
Afford
no
extraordinary
gaze
Such
as
is
bent
on
sunlike
majesty
When
it
shines
seldom
in
admiring
eyes
,
But
rather
drowsed
and
hung
their
eyelids
down
,
Slept
in
his
face
,
and
rendered
such
aspect
As
cloudy
men
use
to
their
adversaries
,
Being
with
his
presence
glutted
,
gorged
,
and
full
.
And
in
that
very
line
,
Harry
,
standest
thou
,
For
thou
hast
lost
thy
princely
privilege
With
vile
participation
.
Not
an
eye
But
is
aweary
of
thy
common
sight
,
Save
mine
,
which
hath
desired
to
see
thee
more
,
Which
now
doth
that
I
would
not
have
it
do
,
Make
blind
itself
with
foolish
tenderness
.
For
all
the
world
As
thou
art
to
this
hour
was
Richard
then
When
I
from
France
set
foot
at
Ravenspurgh
,
And
even
as
I
was
then
is
Percy
now
.
Now
,
by
my
scepter
,
and
my
soul
to
boot
,
He
hath
more
worthy
interest
to
the
state
Than
thou
,
the
shadow
of
succession
.
For
of
no
right
,
nor
color
like
to
right
,
He
doth
fill
fields
with
harness
in
the
realm
,
Turns
head
against
the
lion’s
armèd
jaws
,
And
,
being
no
more
in
debt
to
years
than
thou
,
Leads
ancient
lords
and
reverend
bishops
on
To
bloody
battles
and
to
bruising
arms
.
What
never-dying
honor
hath
he
got
Against
renownèd
Douglas
,
whose
high
deeds
,
Whose
hot
incursions
and
great
name
in
arms
,
Holds
from
all
soldiers
chief
majority
And
military
title
capital
Through
all
the
kingdoms
that
acknowledge
Christ
.
Thrice
hath
this
Hotspur
,
Mars
in
swaddling
clothes
,
This
infant
warrior
,
in
his
enterprises
Discomfited
great
Douglas
,
ta’en
him
once
,
Enlargèd
him
,
and
made
a
friend
of
him
,
To
fill
the
mouth
of
deep
defiance
up
And
shake
the
peace
and
safety
of
our
throne
.
And
what
say
you
to
this
?
Percy
,
Northumberland
,
The
Archbishop’s
Grace
of
York
,
Douglas
,
Mortimer
,
Capitulate
against
us
and
are
up
.
But
wherefore
do
I
tell
these
news
to
thee
?
Why
,
Harry
,
do
I
tell
thee
of
my
foes
,
Which
art
my
nearest
and
dearest
enemy
?
Thou
that
art
like
enough
,
through
vassal
fear
,
Base
inclination
,
and
the
start
of
spleen
,
To
fight
against
me
under
Percy’s
pay
,
To
dog
his
heels
,
and
curtsy
at
his
frowns
,
To
show
how
much
thou
art
degenerate
.
Do
not
think
so
.
You
shall
not
find
it
so
.
And
God
forgive
them
that
so
much
have
swayed
Your
Majesty’s
good
thoughts
away
from
me
.
I
will
redeem
all
this
on
Percy’s
head
,
And
,
in
the
closing
of
some
glorious
day
,
Be
bold
to
tell
you
that
I
am
your
son
,
When
I
will
wear
a
garment
all
of
blood
And
stain
my
favors
in
a
bloody
mask
,
Which
,
washed
away
,
shall
scour
my
shame
with
it
.
And
that
shall
be
the
day
,
whene’er
it
lights
,
That
this
same
child
of
honor
and
renown
,
This
gallant
Hotspur
,
this
all-praisèd
knight
,
And
your
unthought-of
Harry
chance
to
meet
.
For
every
honor
sitting
on
his
helm
,
Would
they
were
multitudes
,
and
on
my
head
My
shames
redoubled
!
For
the
time
will
come
That
I
shall
make
this
northern
youth
exchange
His
glorious
deeds
for
my
indignities
.
Percy
is
but
my
factor
,
good
my
lord
,
To
engross
up
glorious
deeds
on
my
behalf
.
And
I
will
call
him
to
so
strict
account
That
he
shall
render
every
glory
up
,
Yea
,
even
the
slightest
worship
of
his
time
,
Or
I
will
tear
the
reckoning
from
his
heart
.
This
in
the
name
of
God
I
promise
here
,
The
which
if
He
be
pleased
I
shall
perform
,
I
do
beseech
your
Majesty
may
salve
The
long-grown
wounds
of
my
intemperance
.
If
not
,
the
end
of
life
cancels
all
bands
,
And
I
will
die
a
hundred
thousand
deaths
Ere
break
the
smallest
parcel
of
this
vow
.
A
hundred
thousand
rebels
die
in
this
.
Thou
shalt
have
charge
and
sovereign
trust
herein
.
How
now
,
good
Blunt
?
Thy
looks
are
full
of
speed
.
Bardolph
,
am
I
not
fallen
away
vilely
since
this
last
action
?
Do
I
not
bate
?
Do
I
not
dwindle
?
Why
,
my
skin
hangs
about
me
like
an
old
lady’s
loose
gown
.
I
am
withered
like
an
old
applejohn
.
Well
,
I’ll
repent
,
and
that
suddenly
,
while
I
am
in
some
liking
.
I
shall
be
out
of
heart
shortly
,
and
then
I
shall
have
no
strength
to
repent
.
An
I
have
not
forgotten
what
the
inside
of
a
church
is
made
of
,
I
am
a
peppercorn
,
a
brewer’s
horse
.
The
inside
of
a
church
!
Company
,
villainous
company
,
hath
been
the
spoil
of
me
.
’Sblood
,
I
would
my
face
were
in
your
belly
!
How
,
poor
?
Look
upon
his
face
.
What
call
you
rich
?
Let
them
coin
his
nose
.
Let
them
coin
his
cheeks
.
I’ll
not
pay
a
denier
.
What
,
will
you
make
a
younker
of
me
?
Shall
I
not
take
mine
ease
in
mine
inn
but
I
shall
have
my
pocket
picked
?
I
have
lost
a
seal
ring
of
my
grandfather’s
worth
forty
mark
.
How
?
The
Prince
is
a
jack
,
a
sneak-up
.
’Sblood
,
an
he
were
here
,
I
would
cudgel
him
like
a
dog
if
he
would
say
so
.
How
now
,
lad
,
is
the
wind
in
that
door
,
i’
faith
?
Must
we
all
march
?
Hostess
,
I
forgive
thee
.
Go
make
ready
breakfast
,
love
thy
husband
,
look
to
thy
servants
,
cherish
thy
guests
.
Thou
shalt
find
me
tractable
to
any
honest
reason
.
Thou
seest
I
am
pacified
still
.
Nay
,
prithee
,
begone
.
Now
,
Hal
,
to
the
news
at
court
.
For
the
robbery
,
lad
,
how
is
that
answered
?
Sick
now
?
Droop
now
?
This
sickness
doth
infect
The
very
lifeblood
of
our
enterprise
.
’Tis
catching
hither
,
even
to
our
camp
.
He
writes
me
here
that
inward
sickness
—
And
that
his
friends
by
deputation
Could
not
so
soon
be
drawn
,
nor
did
he
think
it
meet
To
lay
so
dangerous
and
dear
a
trust
On
any
soul
removed
but
on
his
own
;
Yet
doth
he
give
us
bold
advertisement
That
with
our
small
conjunction
we
should
on
To
see
how
fortune
is
disposed
to
us
,
For
,
as
he
writes
,
there
is
no
quailing
now
,
Because
the
King
is
certainly
possessed
Of
all
our
purposes
.
What
say
you
to
it
?
A
rendezvous
,
a
home
to
fly
unto
,
If
that
the
devil
and
mischance
look
big
Upon
the
maidenhead
of
our
affairs
.
But
yet
I
would
your
father
had
been
here
.
The
quality
and
hair
of
our
attempt
Brooks
no
division
.
It
will
be
thought
By
some
that
know
not
why
he
is
away
That
wisdom
,
loyalty
,
and
mere
dislike
Of
our
proceedings
kept
the
Earl
from
hence
.
And
think
how
such
an
apprehension
May
turn
the
tide
of
fearful
faction
And
breed
a
kind
of
question
in
our
cause
.
For
well
you
know
,
we
of
the
off’ring
side
Must
keep
aloof
from
strict
arbitrament
,
And
stop
all
sight-holes
,
every
loop
from
whence
The
eye
of
reason
may
pry
in
upon
us
.
This
absence
of
your
father’s
draws
a
curtain
That
shows
the
ignorant
a
kind
of
fear
Before
not
dreamt
of
.
No
more
,
no
more
!
Worse
than
the
sun
in
March
This
praise
doth
nourish
agues
.
Let
them
come
.
They
come
like
sacrifices
in
their
trim
,
And
to
the
fire-eyed
maid
of
smoky
war
All
hot
and
bleeding
will
we
offer
them
.
The
mailèd
Mars
shall
on
his
altar
sit
Up
to
the
ears
in
blood
.
I
am
on
fire
To
hear
this
rich
reprisal
is
so
nigh
And
yet
not
ours
.
Come
,
let
me
taste
my
horse
,
Who
is
to
bear
me
like
a
thunderbolt
Against
the
bosom
of
the
Prince
of
Wales
.
Harry
to
Harry
shall
,
hot
horse
to
horse
,
Meet
and
ne’er
part
till
one
drop
down
a
corse
.
O
,
that
Glendower
were
come
!
Faith
,
Sir
John
,
’tis
more
than
time
that
I
were
there
and
you
too
,
but
my
powers
are
there
already
.
The
King
,
I
can
tell
you
,
looks
for
us
all
.
We
must
away
all
night
.
Why
say
you
so
?
Looks
he
not
for
supply
?
The
King
is
kind
,
and
well
we
know
the
King
Knows
at
what
time
to
promise
,
when
to
pay
.
My
father
and
my
uncle
and
myself
Did
give
him
that
same
royalty
he
wears
,
And
when
he
was
not
six-and-twenty
strong
,
Sick
in
the
world’s
regard
,
wretched
and
low
,
A
poor
unminded
outlaw
sneaking
home
,
My
father
gave
him
welcome
to
the
shore
;
And
when
he
heard
him
swear
and
vow
to
God
He
came
but
to
be
Duke
of
Lancaster
,
To
sue
his
livery
,
and
beg
his
peace
With
tears
of
innocency
and
terms
of
zeal
,
My
father
,
in
kind
heart
and
pity
moved
,
Swore
him
assistance
and
performed
it
too
.
Now
when
the
lords
and
barons
of
the
realm
Perceived
Northumberland
did
lean
to
him
,
The
more
and
less
came
in
with
cap
and
knee
,
Met
him
in
boroughs
,
cities
,
villages
,
Attended
him
on
bridges
,
stood
in
lanes
,
Laid
gifts
before
him
,
proffered
him
their
oaths
,
Gave
him
their
heirs
as
pages
,
followed
him
Even
at
the
heels
in
golden
multitudes
.
He
presently
,
as
greatness
knows
itself
,
Steps
me
a
little
higher
than
his
vow
Made
to
my
father
while
his
blood
was
poor
Upon
the
naked
shore
at
Ravenspurgh
,
And
now
forsooth
takes
on
him
to
reform
Some
certain
edicts
and
some
strait
decrees
That
lie
too
heavy
on
the
commonwealth
,
Cries
out
upon
abuses
,
seems
to
weep
Over
his
country’s
wrongs
,
and
by
this
face
,
This
seeming
brow
of
justice
,
did
he
win
The
hearts
of
all
that
he
did
angle
for
,
Proceeded
further
—
cut
me
off
the
heads
Of
all
the
favorites
that
the
absent
king
In
deputation
left
behind
him
here
When
he
was
personal
in
the
Irish
war
.
How
bloodily
the
sun
begins
to
peer
Above
yon
bulky
hill
.
The
day
looks
pale
At
his
distemp’rature
.
It
pleased
your
Majesty
to
turn
your
looks
Of
favor
from
myself
and
all
our
house
;
And
yet
I
must
remember
you
,
my
lord
,
We
were
the
first
and
dearest
of
your
friends
.
For
you
my
staff
of
office
did
I
break
In
Richard’s
time
,
and
posted
day
and
night
To
meet
you
on
the
way
and
kiss
your
hand
When
yet
you
were
in
place
and
in
account
Nothing
so
strong
and
fortunate
as
I
.
It
was
myself
,
my
brother
,
and
his
son
That
brought
you
home
and
boldly
did
outdare
The
dangers
of
the
time
.
You
swore
to
us
,
And
you
did
swear
that
oath
at
Doncaster
,
That
you
did
nothing
purpose
’gainst
the
state
,
Nor
claim
no
further
than
your
new-fall’n
right
,
The
seat
of
Gaunt
,
dukedom
of
Lancaster
.
To
this
we
swore
our
aid
.
But
in
short
space
It
rained
down
fortune
show’ring
on
your
head
,
And
such
a
flood
of
greatness
fell
on
you
—
What
with
our
help
,
what
with
the
absent
king
,
What
with
the
injuries
of
a
wanton
time
,
The
seeming
sufferances
that
you
had
borne
,
And
the
contrarious
winds
that
held
the
King
So
long
in
his
unlucky
Irish
wars
That
all
in
England
did
repute
him
dead
—
And
from
this
swarm
of
fair
advantages
You
took
occasion
to
be
quickly
wooed
To
gripe
the
general
sway
into
your
hand
,
Forgot
your
oath
to
us
at
Doncaster
;
And
being
fed
by
us
,
you
used
us
so
As
that
ungentle
gull
,
the
cuckoo’s
bird
,
Useth
the
sparrow
—
did
oppress
our
nest
,
Grew
by
our
feeding
to
so
great
a
bulk
That
even
our
love
durst
not
come
near
your
sight
For
fear
of
swallowing
;
but
with
nimble
wing
We
were
enforced
for
safety
sake
to
fly
Out
of
your
sight
and
raise
this
present
head
,
Whereby
we
stand
opposèd
by
such
means
As
you
yourself
have
forged
against
yourself
By
unkind
usage
,
dangerous
countenance
,
And
violation
of
all
faith
and
troth
Sworn
to
us
in
your
younger
enterprise
.
In
both
your
armies
there
is
many
a
soul
Shall
pay
full
dearly
for
this
encounter
If
once
they
join
in
trial
.
Tell
your
nephew
,
The
Prince
of
Wales
doth
join
with
all
the
world
In
praise
of
Henry
Percy
.
By
my
hopes
,
This
present
enterprise
set
off
his
head
,
I
do
not
think
a
braver
gentleman
,
More
active-valiant
,
or
more
valiant-young
,
More
daring
or
more
bold
,
is
now
alive
To
grace
this
latter
age
with
noble
deeds
.
For
my
part
,
I
may
speak
it
to
my
shame
,
I
have
a
truant
been
to
chivalry
,
And
so
I
hear
he
doth
account
me
too
.
Yet
this
before
my
father’s
majesty
:
I
am
content
that
he
shall
take
the
odds
Of
his
great
name
and
estimation
,
And
will
,
to
save
the
blood
on
either
side
,
Try
fortune
with
him
in
a
single
fight
.
Then
are
we
all
undone
.
It
is
not
possible
,
it
cannot
be
The
King
should
keep
his
word
in
loving
us
.
He
will
suspect
us
still
and
find
a
time
To
punish
this
offense
in
other
faults
.
Suspicion
all
our
lives
shall
be
stuck
full
of
eyes
,
For
treason
is
but
trusted
like
the
fox
,
Who
,
never
so
tame
,
so
cherished
and
locked
up
,
Will
have
a
wild
trick
of
his
ancestors
.
Look
how
we
can
,
or
sad
or
merrily
,
Interpretation
will
misquote
our
looks
,
And
we
shall
feed
like
oxen
at
a
stall
,
The
better
cherished
still
the
nearer
death
.
My
nephew’s
trespass
may
be
well
forgot
;
It
hath
the
excuse
of
youth
and
heat
of
blood
,
And
an
adopted
name
of
privilege
—
A
harebrained
Hotspur
governed
by
a
spleen
.
All
his
offenses
live
upon
my
head
And
on
his
father’s
.
We
did
train
him
on
,
And
his
corruption
being
ta’en
from
us
,
We
as
the
spring
of
all
shall
pay
for
all
.
Therefore
,
good
cousin
,
let
not
Harry
know
In
any
case
the
offer
of
the
King
.
Cousin
,
I
think
thou
art
enamorèd
On
his
follies
.
Never
did
I
hear
Of
any
prince
so
wild
a
liberty
.
But
be
he
as
he
will
,
yet
once
ere
night
I
will
embrace
him
with
a
soldier’s
arm
That
he
shall
shrink
under
my
courtesy
.
—
Arm
,
arm
with
speed
,
and
,
fellows
,
soldiers
,
friends
,
Better
consider
what
you
have
to
do
Than
I
that
have
not
well
the
gift
of
tongue
Can
lift
your
blood
up
with
persuasion
.
I
thank
him
that
he
cuts
me
from
my
tale
,
For
I
profess
not
talking
.
Only
this
:
Let
each
man
do
his
best
.
And
here
draw
I
a
sword
,
Whose
temper
I
intend
to
stain
With
the
best
blood
that
I
can
meet
withal
In
the
adventure
of
this
perilous
day
.
Now
,
Esperance
!
Percy
!
And
set
on
.
Sound
all
the
lofty
instruments
of
war
,
And
by
that
music
let
us
all
embrace
,
For
,
heaven
to
Earth
earth
,
some
of
us
never
shall
A
second
time
do
such
a
courtesy
.
Well
,
if
Percy
be
alive
,
I’ll
pierce
him
.
If
he
do
come
in
my
way
,
so
;
if
he
do
not
,
if
I
come
in
his
willingly
,
let
him
make
a
carbonado
of
me
.
I
like
not
such
grinning
honor
as
Sir
Walter
hath
.
Give
me
life
,
which
,
if
I
can
save
,
so
:
if
not
,
honor
comes
unlooked
for
,
and
there’s
an
end
.
I
saw
him
hold
Lord
Percy
at
the
point
With
lustier
maintenance
than
I
did
look
for
Of
such
an
ungrown
warrior
.
For
worms
,
brave
Percy
.
Fare
thee
well
,
great
heart
.
Ill-weaved
ambition
,
how
much
art
thou
shrunk
!
When
that
this
body
did
contain
a
spirit
,
A
kingdom
for
it
was
too
small
a
bound
,
But
now
two
paces
of
the
vilest
earth
Is
room
enough
.
This
earth
that
bears
thee
dead
Bears
not
alive
so
stout
a
gentleman
.
If
thou
wert
sensible
of
courtesy
,
I
should
not
make
so
dear
a
show
of
zeal
.
But
let
my
favors
hide
thy
mangled
face
;
And
even
in
thy
behalf
I’ll
thank
myself
For
doing
these
fair
rites
of
tenderness
.
Adieu
,
and
take
thy
praise
with
thee
to
heaven
.
Thy
ignominy
sleep
with
thee
in
the
grave
,
But
not
remembered
in
thy
epitaph
.
What
,
old
acquaintance
,
could
not
all
this
flesh
Keep
in
a
little
life
?
Poor
Jack
,
farewell
.
I
could
have
better
spared
a
better
man
.
O
,
I
should
have
a
heavy
miss
of
thee
If
I
were
much
in
love
with
vanity
.
Death
hath
not
struck
so
fat
a
deer
today
,
Though
many
dearer
in
this
bloody
fray
.
Emboweled
will
I
see
thee
by
and
by
;
Till
then
in
blood
by
noble
Percy
lie
.
Emboweled
?
If
thou
embowel
me
today
,
I’ll
give
you
leave
to
powder
me
and
eat
me
too
tomorrow
.
’Sblood
,
’twas
time
to
counterfeit
,
or
that
hot
termagant
Scot
had
paid
me
scot
and
lot
too
.
Counterfeit
?
I
lie
.
I
am
no
counterfeit
.
To
die
is
to
be
a
counterfeit
,
for
he
is
but
the
counterfeit
of
a
man
who
hath
not
the
life
of
a
man
;
but
to
counterfeit
dying
when
a
man
thereby
liveth
is
to
be
no
counterfeit
,
but
the
true
and
perfect
image
of
life
indeed
.
The
better
part
of
valor
is
discretion
,
in
the
which
better
part
I
have
saved
my
life
.
Zounds
,
I
am
afraid
of
this
gunpowder
Percy
,
though
he
be
dead
.
How
if
he
should
counterfeit
too
,
and
rise
?
By
my
faith
,
I
am
afraid
he
would
prove
the
better
counterfeit
.
Therefore
I’ll
make
him
sure
,
yea
,
and
I’ll
swear
I
killed
him
.
Why
may
not
he
rise
as
well
as
I
?
Nothing
confutes
me
but
eyes
,
and
nobody
sees
me
.
Therefore
,
sirrah
,
with
a
new
wound
in
your
thigh
,
come
you
along
with
me
.
No
,
that’s
certain
.
I
am
not
a
double
man
.
But
if
I
be
not
Jack
Falstaff
,
then
am
I
a
jack
.
There
is
Percy
.
If
your
father
will
do
me
any
honor
,
so
;
if
not
,
let
him
kill
the
next
Percy
himself
.
I
look
to
be
either
earl
or
duke
,
I
can
assure
you
.
Open
your
ears
,
for
which
of
you
will
stop
The
vent
of
hearing
when
loud
Rumor
speaks
?
I
,
from
the
orient
to
the
drooping
west
,
Making
the
wind
my
post-horse
,
still
unfold
The
acts
commencèd
on
this
ball
of
earth
.
Upon
my
tongues
continual
slanders
ride
,
The
which
in
every
language
I
pronounce
,
Stuffing
the
ears
of
men
with
false
reports
.
I
speak
of
peace
while
covert
enmity
Under
the
smile
of
safety
wounds
the
world
.
And
who
but
Rumor
,
who
but
only
I
,
Make
fearful
musters
and
prepared
defense
Whiles
the
big
year
,
swoll’n
with
some
other
grief
,
Is
thought
with
child
by
the
stern
tyrant
war
,
And
no
such
matter
?
Rumor
is
a
pipe
Blown
by
surmises
,
jealousies
,
conjectures
,
And
of
so
easy
and
so
plain
a
stop
That
the
blunt
monster
with
uncounted
heads
,
The
still-discordant
wav’ring
multitude
,
Can
play
upon
it
.
But
what
need
I
thus
My
well-known
body
to
anatomize
Among
my
household
?
Why
is
Rumor
here
?
I
run
before
King
Harry’s
victory
,
Who
in
a
bloody
field
by
Shrewsbury
Hath
beaten
down
young
Hotspur
and
his
troops
,
Quenching
the
flame
of
bold
rebellion
Even
with
the
rebels’
blood
.
But
what
mean
I
To
speak
so
true
at
first
?
My
office
is
To
noise
abroad
that
Harry
Monmouth
fell
Under
the
wrath
of
noble
Hotspur’s
sword
,
And
that
the
King
before
the
Douglas’
rage
Stooped
his
anointed
head
as
low
as
death
.
This
have
I
rumored
through
the
peasant
towns
Between
that
royal
field
of
Shrewsbury
And
this
worm-eaten
hold
of
ragged
stone
,
Where
Hotspur’s
father
,
old
Northumberland
,
Lies
crafty-sick
.
The
posts
come
tiring
on
,
And
not
a
man
of
them
brings
other
news
Than
they
have
learnt
of
me
.
From
Rumor’s
tongues
They
bring
smooth
comforts
false
,
worse
than
true
wrongs
.
What
news
,
Lord
Bardolph
?
Every
minute
now
Should
be
the
father
of
some
stratagem
.
The
times
are
wild
.
Contention
,
like
a
horse
Full
of
high
feeding
,
madly
hath
broke
loose
And
bears
down
all
before
him
.
My
lord
,
Sir
John
Umfrevile
turned
me
back
With
joyful
tidings
and
,
being
better
horsed
,
Outrode
me
.
After
him
came
spurring
hard
A
gentleman
,
almost
forspent
with
speed
,
That
stopped
by
me
to
breathe
his
bloodied
horse
.
He
asked
the
way
to
Chester
,
and
of
him
I
did
demand
what
news
from
Shrewsbury
.
He
told
me
that
rebellion
had
bad
luck
And
that
young
Harry
Percy’s
spur
was
cold
.
With
that
he
gave
his
able
horse
the
head
And
,
bending
forward
,
struck
his
armèd
heels
Against
the
panting
sides
of
his
poor
jade
Up
to
the
rowel-head
,
and
starting
so
He
seemed
in
running
to
devour
the
way
,
Staying
no
longer
question
.
Who
,
he
?
He
was
some
hilding
fellow
that
had
stol’n
The
horse
he
rode
on
and
,
upon
my
life
,
Spoke
at
a
venture
.
Look
,
here
comes
more
news
.
Yea
,
this
man’s
brow
,
like
to
a
title
leaf
,
Foretells
the
nature
of
a
tragic
volume
.
So
looks
the
strand
whereon
the
imperious
flood
Hath
left
a
witnessed
usurpation
.
—
Say
,
Morton
,
didst
thou
come
from
Shrewsbury
?
How
doth
my
son
and
brother
?
Thou
tremblest
,
and
the
whiteness
in
thy
cheek
Is
apter
than
thy
tongue
to
tell
thy
errand
.
Even
such
a
man
,
so
faint
,
so
spiritless
,
So
dull
,
so
dead
in
look
,
so
woebegone
,
Drew
Priam’s
curtain
in
the
dead
of
night
And
would
have
told
him
half
his
Troy
was
burnt
;
But
Priam
found
the
fire
ere
he
his
tongue
,
And
I
my
Percy’s
death
ere
thou
report’st
it
.
This
thou
wouldst
say
:
Your
son
did
thus
and
thus
;
Your
brother
thus
;
so
fought
the
noble
Douglas
—
Stopping
my
greedy
ear
with
their
bold
deeds
.
But
in
the
end
,
to
stop
my
ear
indeed
,
Thou
hast
a
sigh
to
blow
away
this
praise
,
Ending
with
Brother
,
son
,
and
all
are
dead
.
I
am
sorry
I
should
force
you
to
believe
That
which
I
would
to
God
I
had
not
seen
,
But
these
mine
eyes
saw
him
in
bloody
state
,
Rend’ring
faint
quittance
,
wearied
and
outbreathed
,
To
Harry
Monmouth
,
whose
swift
wrath
beat
down
The
never-daunted
Percy
to
the
earth
,
From
whence
with
life
he
never
more
sprung
up
.
In
few
,
his
death
,
whose
spirit
lent
a
fire
Even
to
the
dullest
peasant
in
his
camp
,
Being
bruited
once
,
took
fire
and
heat
away
From
the
best-tempered
courage
in
his
troops
;
For
from
his
mettle
was
his
party
steeled
,
Which
,
once
in
him
abated
,
all
the
rest
Turned
on
themselves
,
like
dull
and
heavy
lead
.
And
as
the
thing
that’s
heavy
in
itself
Upon
enforcement
flies
with
greatest
speed
,
So
did
our
men
,
heavy
in
Hotspur’s
loss
,
Lend
to
this
weight
such
lightness
with
their
fear
That
arrows
fled
not
swifter
toward
their
aim
Than
did
our
soldiers
,
aiming
at
their
safety
,
Fly
from
the
field
.
Then
was
that
noble
Worcester
So
soon
ta’en
prisoner
;
and
that
furious
Scot
,
The
bloody
Douglas
,
whose
well-laboring
sword
Had
three
times
slain
th’
appearance
of
the
King
,
Gan
vail
his
stomach
and
did
grace
the
shame
Of
those
that
turned
their
backs
and
in
his
flight
,
Stumbling
in
fear
,
was
took
.
The
sum
of
all
Is
that
the
King
hath
won
and
hath
sent
out
A
speedy
power
to
encounter
you
,
my
lord
,
Under
the
conduct
of
young
Lancaster
And
Westmoreland
.
This
is
the
news
at
full
.
For
this
I
shall
have
time
enough
to
mourn
.
In
poison
there
is
physic
,
and
these
news
,
Having
been
well
,
that
would
have
made
me
sick
,
Being
sick
,
have
in
some
measure
made
me
well
.
And
as
the
wretch
whose
fever-weakened
joints
,
Like
strengthless
hinges
,
buckle
under
life
,
Impatient
of
his
fit
,
breaks
like
a
fire
Out
of
his
keeper’s
arms
,
even
so
my
limbs
,
Weakened
with
grief
,
being
now
enraged
with
grief
,
Are
thrice
themselves
.
Hence
therefore
,
thou
nice
crutch
.
A
scaly
gauntlet
now
with
joints
of
steel
Must
glove
this
hand
.
And
hence
,
thou
sickly
coif
.
Thou
art
a
guard
too
wanton
for
the
head
Which
princes
,
fleshed
with
conquest
,
aim
to
hit
.
Now
bind
my
brows
with
iron
,
and
approach
The
ragged’st
hour
that
time
and
spite
dare
bring
To
frown
upon
th’
enraged
Northumberland
.
Let
heaven
kiss
Earth
earth
!
Now
let
not
Nature’s
hand
Keep
the
wild
flood
confined
.
Let
order
die
,
And
let
this
world
no
longer
be
a
stage
To
feed
contention
in
a
lingering
act
;
But
let
one
spirit
of
the
firstborn
Cain
Reign
in
all
bosoms
,
that
,
each
heart
being
set
On
bloody
courses
,
the
rude
scene
may
end
,
And
darkness
be
the
burier
of
the
dead
.
’Tis
more
than
time
.
—
And
,
my
most
noble
lord
,
I
hear
for
certain
,
and
dare
speak
the
truth
:
The
gentle
Archbishop
of
York
is
up
With
well-appointed
powers
.
He
is
a
man
Who
with
a
double
surety
binds
his
followers
.
My
lord
your
son
had
only
but
the
corpse
,
But
shadows
and
the
shows
of
men
,
to
fight
;
For
that
same
word
rebellion
did
divide
The
action
of
their
bodies
from
their
souls
,
And
they
did
fight
with
queasiness
,
constrained
,
As
men
drink
potions
,
that
their
weapons
only
Seemed
on
our
side
.
But
,
for
their
spirits
and
souls
,
This
word
rebellion
,
it
had
froze
them
up
As
fish
are
in
a
pond
.
But
now
the
Bishop
Turns
insurrection
to
religion
.
Supposed
sincere
and
holy
in
his
thoughts
,
He’s
followed
both
with
body
and
with
mind
,
And
doth
enlarge
his
rising
with
the
blood
Of
fair
King
Richard
,
scraped
from
Pomfret
stones
;
Derives
from
heaven
his
quarrel
and
his
cause
;
Tells
them
he
doth
bestride
a
bleeding
land
,
Gasping
for
life
under
great
Bolingbroke
;
And
more
and
less
do
flock
to
follow
him
.
Let
him
be
damned
like
the
glutton
!
Pray
God
his
tongue
be
hotter
!
A
whoreson
Achitophel
,
a
rascally
yea-forsooth
knave
,
to
bear
a
gentleman
in
hand
and
then
stand
upon
security
!
The
whoreson
smoothy-pates
do
now
wear
nothing
but
high
shoes
and
bunches
of
keys
at
their
girdles
;
and
if
a
man
is
through
with
them
in
honest
taking
up
,
then
they
must
stand
upon
security
.
I
had
as
lief
they
would
put
ratsbane
in
my
mouth
as
offer
to
stop
it
with
security
.
I
looked
he
should
have
sent
me
two-and-twenty
yards
of
satin
,
as
I
am
a
true
knight
,
and
he
sends
me
security
.
Well
,
he
may
sleep
in
security
,
for
he
hath
the
horn
of
abundance
,
and
the
lightness
of
his
wife
shines
through
it
,
and
yet
cannot
he
see
though
he
have
his
own
lantern
to
light
him
.
Where’s
Bardolph
?
This
apoplexy
,
as
I
take
it
,
is
a
kind
of
lethargy
,
an
’t
please
your
Lordship
,
a
kind
of
sleeping
in
the
blood
,
a
whoreson
tingling
.
Not
so
,
my
lord
.
Your
ill
angel
is
light
,
but
I
hope
he
that
looks
upon
me
will
take
me
without
weighing
.
And
yet
in
some
respects
I
grant
I
cannot
go
.
I
cannot
tell
.
Virtue
is
of
so
little
regard
in
these
costermongers’
times
that
true
valor
is
turned
bearherd
;
pregnancy
is
made
a
tapster
,
and
hath
his
quick
wit
wasted
in
giving
reckonings
.
All
the
other
gifts
appurtenant
to
man
,
as
the
malice
of
this
age
shapes
them
,
are
not
worth
a
gooseberry
.
You
that
are
old
consider
not
the
capacities
of
us
that
are
young
.
You
do
measure
the
heat
of
our
livers
with
the
bitterness
of
your
galls
,
and
we
that
are
in
the
vaward
of
our
youth
,
I
must
confess
,
are
wags
too
.
Yea
,
I
thank
your
pretty
sweet
wit
for
it
.
But
look
you
pray
,
all
you
that
kiss
my
Lady
Peace
at
home
,
that
our
armies
join
not
in
a
hot
day
,
for
,
by
the
Lord
,
I
take
but
two
shirts
out
with
me
,
and
I
mean
not
to
sweat
extraordinarily
.
If
it
be
a
hot
day
and
I
brandish
anything
but
a
bottle
,
I
would
I
might
never
spit
white
again
.
There
is
not
a
dangerous
action
can
peep
out
his
head
but
I
am
thrust
upon
it
.
Well
,
I
cannot
last
ever
.
But
it
was
always
yet
the
trick
of
our
English
nation
,
if
they
have
a
good
thing
,
to
make
it
too
common
.
If
you
will
needs
say
I
am
an
old
man
,
you
should
give
me
rest
.
I
would
to
God
my
name
were
not
so
terrible
to
the
enemy
as
it
is
.
I
were
better
to
be
eaten
to
death
with
a
rust
than
to
be
scoured
to
nothing
with
perpetual
motion
.
I
well
allow
the
occasion
of
our
arms
,
But
gladly
would
be
better
satisfied
How
in
our
means
we
should
advance
ourselves
To
look
with
forehead
bold
and
big
enough
Upon
the
power
and
puissance
of
the
King
.
Yea
,
marry
,
there’s
the
point
.
But
if
without
him
we
be
thought
too
feeble
,
My
judgment
is
we
should
not
step
too
far
Till
we
had
his
assistance
by
the
hand
.
For
in
a
theme
so
bloody-faced
as
this
,
Conjecture
,
expectation
,
and
surmise
Of
aids
incertain
should
not
be
admitted
.
Is
’t
come
to
that
?
I
had
thought
weariness
durst
not
have
attached
one
of
so
high
blood
.
Why
,
a
prince
should
not
be
so
loosely
studied
as
to
remember
so
weak
a
composition
.
And
the
boy
that
I
gave
Falstaff
.
He
had
him
from
me
Christian
,
and
look
if
the
fat
villain
have
not
transformed
him
ape
.
I
do
allow
this
wen
to
be
as
familiar
with
me
as
my
dog
,
and
he
holds
his
place
,
for
look
you
how
he
writes
.
John
Falstaff
,
knight
.
Every
man
must
know
that
as
oft
as
he
has
occasion
to
name
himself
,
even
like
those
that
are
kin
to
the
King
,
for
they
never
prick
their
finger
but
they
say
There’s
some
of
the
King’s
blood
spilt
.
How
comes
that
?
says
he
that
takes
upon
him
not
to
conceive
.
The
answer
is
as
ready
as
a
borrower’s
cap
:
I
am
the
King’s
poor
cousin
,
sir
.
O
yet
,
for
God’s
sake
,
go
not
to
these
wars
.
The
time
was
,
father
,
that
you
broke
your
word
When
you
were
more
endeared
to
it
than
now
,
When
your
own
Percy
,
when
my
heart’s
dear
Harry
,
Threw
many
a
northward
look
to
see
his
father
Bring
up
his
powers
;
but
he
did
long
in
vain
.
Who
then
persuaded
you
to
stay
at
home
?
There
were
two
honors
lost
,
yours
and
your
son’s
.
For
yours
,
the
God
of
heaven
brighten
it
.
For
his
,
it
stuck
upon
him
as
the
sun
In
the
gray
vault
of
heaven
,
and
by
his
light
Did
all
the
chivalry
of
England
move
To
do
brave
acts
.
He
was
indeed
the
glass
Wherein
the
noble
youth
did
dress
themselves
.
He
had
no
legs
that
practiced
not
his
gait
;
And
speaking
thick
,
which
nature
made
his
blemish
,
Became
the
accents
of
the
valiant
;
For
those
that
could
speak
low
and
tardily
Would
turn
their
own
perfection
to
abuse
To
seem
like
him
.
So
that
in
speech
,
in
gait
,
In
diet
,
in
affections
of
delight
,
In
military
rules
,
humors
of
blood
,
He
was
the
mark
and
glass
,
copy
and
book
,
That
fashioned
others
.
And
him
—
O
wondrous
him
!
O
miracle
of
men
!
—
him
did
you
leave
,
Second
to
none
,
unseconded
by
you
,
To
look
upon
the
hideous
god
of
war
In
disadvantage
,
to
abide
a
field
Where
nothing
but
the
sound
of
Hotspur’s
name
Did
seem
defensible
.
So
you
left
him
.
Never
,
O
never
,
do
his
ghost
the
wrong
To
hold
your
honor
more
precise
and
nice
With
others
than
with
him
.
Let
them
alone
.
The
Marshal
and
the
Archbishop
are
strong
.
Had
my
sweet
Harry
had
but
half
their
numbers
,
Today
might
I
,
hanging
on
Hotspur’s
neck
,
Have
talked
of
Monmouth’s
grave
.
I’
faith
,
sweetheart
,
methinks
now
you
are
in
an
excellent
good
temperality
.
Your
pulsidge
beats
as
extraordinarily
as
heart
would
desire
,
and
your
color
,
I
warrant
you
,
is
as
red
as
any
rose
,
in
good
truth
,
la
.
But
,
i’
faith
,
you
have
drunk
too
much
canaries
,
and
that’s
a
marvellous
searching
wine
,
and
it
perfumes
the
blood
ere
one
can
say
What’s
this
?
How
do
you
now
?
Cheater
call
you
him
?
I
will
bar
no
honest
man
my
house
,
nor
no
cheater
,
but
I
do
not
love
swaggering
.
By
my
troth
,
I
am
the
worse
when
one
says
swagger
.
Feel
,
masters
,
how
I
shake
;
look
you
,
I
warrant
you
.
Captain
?
Thou
abominable
damned
cheater
,
art
thou
not
ashamed
to
be
called
captain
?
An
captains
were
of
my
mind
,
they
would
truncheon
you
out
for
taking
their
names
upon
you
before
you
have
earned
them
.
You
a
captain
?
You
slave
,
for
what
?
For
tearing
a
poor
whore’s
ruff
in
a
bawdy
house
?
He
a
captain
!
Hang
him
,
rogue
.
He
lives
upon
mouldy
stewed
prunes
and
dried
cakes
.
A
captain
?
God’s
light
,
these
villains
will
make
the
word
as
odious
as
the
word
occupy
,
which
was
an
excellent
good
word
before
it
was
ill
sorted
.
Therefore
captains
had
need
look
to
’t
.
Look
whe’er
the
withered
elder
hath
not
his
poll
clawed
like
a
parrot
.
And
look
whether
the
fiery
trigon
,
his
man
,
be
not
lisping
to
his
master’s
old
tables
,
his
notebook
,
his
counsel
keeper
.
Thou
whoreson
mad
compound
of
majesty
,
by
this
light
flesh
and
corrupt
blood
,
thou
art
welcome
.
Who
knocks
so
loud
at
door
?
Look
to
th’
door
there
,
Francis
.
It
is
very
just
.
Look
,
here
comes
good
Sir
John
.
—
Give
me
your
good
hand
,
give
me
your
Worship’s
good
hand
.
By
my
troth
,
you
like
well
and
bear
your
years
very
well
.
Welcome
,
good
Sir
John
.
Then
,
my
lord
,
Unto
your
Grace
do
I
in
chief
address
The
substance
of
my
speech
.
If
that
rebellion
Came
like
itself
,
in
base
and
abject
routs
,
Led
on
by
bloody
youth
,
guarded
with
rage
,
And
countenanced
by
boys
and
beggary
—
I
say
,
if
damned
commotion
so
appeared
In
his
true
,
native
,
and
most
proper
shape
,
You
,
reverend
father
,
and
these
noble
lords
Had
not
been
here
to
dress
the
ugly
form
Of
base
and
bloody
insurrection
With
your
fair
honors
.
You
,
Lord
Archbishop
,
Whose
see
is
by
a
civil
peace
maintained
,
Whose
beard
the
silver
hand
of
peace
hath
touched
,
Whose
learning
and
good
letters
peace
hath
tutored
,
Whose
white
investments
figure
innocence
,
The
dove
and
very
blessèd
spirit
of
peace
,
Wherefore
do
you
so
ill
translate
yourself
Out
of
the
speech
of
peace
,
that
bears
such
grace
,
Into
the
harsh
and
boist’rous
tongue
of
war
,
Turning
your
books
to
graves
,
your
ink
to
blood
,
Your
pens
to
lances
,
and
your
tongue
divine
To
a
loud
trumpet
and
a
point
of
war
?
Wherefore
do
I
this
?
So
the
question
stands
.
Briefly
,
to
this
end
:
we
are
all
diseased
And
with
our
surfeiting
and
wanton
hours
Have
brought
ourselves
into
a
burning
fever
,
And
we
must
bleed
for
it
;
of
which
disease
Our
late
King
Richard
,
being
infected
,
died
.
But
,
my
most
noble
Lord
of
Westmoreland
,
I
take
not
on
me
here
as
a
physician
,
Nor
do
I
as
an
enemy
to
peace
Troop
in
the
throngs
of
military
men
,
But
rather
show
awhile
like
fearful
war
To
diet
rank
minds
sick
of
happiness
And
purge
th’
obstructions
which
begin
to
stop
Our
very
veins
of
life
.
Hear
me
more
plainly
.
I
have
in
equal
balance
justly
weighed
What
wrongs
our
arms
may
do
,
what
wrongs
we
suffer
,
And
find
our
griefs
heavier
than
our
offenses
.
We
see
which
way
the
stream
of
time
doth
run
And
are
enforced
from
our
most
quiet
there
By
the
rough
torrent
of
occasion
,
And
have
the
summary
of
all
our
griefs
,
When
time
shall
serve
,
to
show
in
articles
;
Which
long
ere
this
we
offered
to
the
King
And
might
by
no
suit
gain
our
audience
.
When
we
are
wronged
and
would
unfold
our
griefs
,
We
are
denied
access
unto
his
person
Even
by
those
men
that
most
have
done
us
wrong
.
The
dangers
of
the
days
but
newly
gone
,
Whose
memory
is
written
on
the
earth
With
yet-appearing
blood
,
and
the
examples
Of
every
minute’s
instance
,
present
now
,
Hath
put
us
in
these
ill-beseeming
arms
,
Not
to
break
peace
or
any
branch
of
it
,
But
to
establish
here
a
peace
indeed
,
Concurring
both
in
name
and
quality
.
Whenever
yet
was
your
appeal
denied
?
Wherein
have
you
been
gallèd
by
the
King
?
What
peer
hath
been
suborned
to
grate
on
you
,
That
you
should
seal
this
lawless
bloody
book
Of
forged
rebellion
with
a
seal
divine
And
consecrate
commotion’s
bitter
edge
?
I
like
them
all
,
and
do
allow
them
well
,
And
swear
here
by
the
honor
of
my
blood
My
father’s
purposes
have
been
mistook
,
And
some
about
him
have
too
lavishly
Wrested
his
meaning
and
authority
.
My
lord
,
these
griefs
shall
be
with
speed
redressed
;
Upon
my
soul
,
they
shall
.
If
this
may
please
you
,
Discharge
your
powers
unto
their
several
counties
,
As
we
will
ours
,
and
here
,
between
the
armies
,
Let’s
drink
together
friendly
and
embrace
,
That
all
their
eyes
may
bear
those
tokens
home
Of
our
restorèd
love
and
amity
.
I
pawned
thee
none
.
I
promised
you
redress
of
these
same
grievances
Whereof
you
did
complain
,
which
,
by
mine
honor
,
I
will
perform
with
a
most
Christian
care
.
But
for
you
rebels
,
look
to
taste
the
due
Meet
for
rebellion
and
such
acts
as
yours
.
Most
shallowly
did
you
these
arms
commence
,
Fondly
brought
here
,
and
foolishly
sent
hence
.
—
Strike
up
our
drums
;
pursue
the
scattered
stray
.
God
,
and
not
we
,
hath
safely
fought
today
.
—
Some
guard
these
traitors
to
the
block
of
death
,
Treason’s
true
bed
and
yielder-up
of
breath
.
I
would
you
had
but
the
wit
;
’twere
better
than
your
dukedom
.
Good
faith
,
this
same
young
sober-blooded
boy
doth
not
love
me
,
nor
a
man
cannot
make
him
laugh
.
But
that’s
no
marvel
;
he
drinks
no
wine
.
There’s
never
none
of
these
demure
boys
come
to
any
proof
,
for
thin
drink
doth
so
overcool
their
blood
,
and
making
many
fish
meals
,
that
they
fall
into
a
kind
of
male
green-sickness
,
and
then
,
when
they
marry
,
they
get
wenches
.
They
are
generally
fools
and
cowards
,
which
some
of
us
should
be
too
,
but
for
inflammation
.
A
good
sherris
sack
hath
a
two-fold
operation
in
it
.
It
ascends
me
into
the
brain
,
dries
me
there
all
the
foolish
and
dull
and
crudy
vapors
which
environ
it
,
makes
it
apprehensive
,
quick
,
forgetive
,
full
of
nimble
,
fiery
,
and
delectable
shapes
,
which
,
delivered
o’er
to
the
voice
,
the
tongue
,
which
is
the
birth
,
becomes
excellent
wit
.
The
second
property
of
your
excellent
sherris
is
the
warming
of
the
blood
,
which
,
before
cold
and
settled
,
left
the
liver
white
and
pale
,
which
is
the
badge
of
pusillanimity
and
cowardice
.
But
the
sherris
warms
it
and
makes
it
course
from
the
inwards
to
the
parts’
extremes
.
It
illumineth
the
face
,
which
as
a
beacon
gives
warning
to
all
the
rest
of
this
little
kingdom
,
man
,
to
arm
;
and
then
the
vital
commoners
and
inland
petty
spirits
muster
me
all
to
their
captain
,
the
heart
,
who
,
great
and
puffed
up
with
this
retinue
,
doth
any
deed
of
courage
,
and
this
valor
comes
of
sherris
.
So
that
skill
in
the
weapon
is
nothing
without
sack
,
for
that
sets
it
a-work
;
and
learning
a
mere
hoard
of
gold
kept
by
a
devil
till
sack
commences
it
and
sets
it
in
act
and
use
.
Hereof
comes
it
that
Prince
Harry
is
valiant
,
for
the
cold
blood
he
did
naturally
inherit
of
his
father
he
hath
,
like
lean
,
sterile
,
and
bare
land
,
manured
,
husbanded
,
and
tilled
with
excellent
endeavor
of
drinking
good
and
good
store
of
fertile
sherris
,
that
he
is
become
very
hot
and
valiant
.
If
I
had
a
thousand
sons
,
the
first
human
principle
I
would
teach
them
should
be
to
forswear
thin
potations
and
to
addict
themselves
to
sack
.
How
now
,
Bardolph
?
Nothing
but
well
to
thee
,
Thomas
of
Clarence
.
How
chance
thou
art
not
with
the
Prince
thy
brother
?
He
loves
thee
,
and
thou
dost
neglect
him
,
Thomas
.
Thou
hast
a
better
place
in
his
affection
Than
all
thy
brothers
.
Cherish
it
,
my
boy
,
And
noble
offices
thou
mayst
effect
Of
mediation
,
after
I
am
dead
,
Between
his
greatness
and
thy
other
brethren
.
Therefore
omit
him
not
,
blunt
not
his
love
,
Nor
lose
the
good
advantage
of
his
grace
By
seeming
cold
or
careless
of
his
will
.
For
he
is
gracious
if
he
be
observed
;
He
hath
a
tear
for
pity
,
and
a
hand
Open
as
day
for
melting
charity
;
Yet
notwithstanding
,
being
incensed
he
is
flint
,
As
humorous
as
winter
,
and
as
sudden
As
flaws
congealèd
in
the
spring
of
day
.
His
temper
therefore
must
be
well
observed
.
Chide
him
for
faults
,
and
do
it
reverently
,
When
you
perceive
his
blood
inclined
to
mirth
;
But
,
being
moody
,
give
him
time
and
scope
Till
that
his
passions
,
like
a
whale
on
ground
,
Confound
themselves
with
working
.
Learn
this
,
Thomas
,
And
thou
shalt
prove
a
shelter
to
thy
friends
,
A
hoop
of
gold
to
bind
thy
brothers
in
,
That
the
united
vessel
of
their
blood
,
Mingled
with
venom
of
suggestion
(
As
,
force
perforce
,
the
age
will
pour
it
in
)
,
Shall
never
leak
,
though
it
do
work
as
strong
As
aconitum
or
rash
gunpowder
.
Most
subject
is
the
fattest
soil
to
weeds
,
And
he
,
the
noble
image
of
my
youth
,
Is
overspread
with
them
;
therefore
my
grief
Stretches
itself
beyond
the
hour
of
death
.
The
blood
weeps
from
my
heart
when
I
do
shape
,
In
forms
imaginary
,
th’
unguided
days
And
rotten
times
that
you
shall
look
upon
When
I
am
sleeping
with
my
ancestors
.
For
when
his
headstrong
riot
hath
no
curb
,
When
rage
and
hot
blood
are
his
counsellors
,
When
means
and
lavish
manners
meet
together
,
O
,
with
what
wings
shall
his
affections
fly
Towards
fronting
peril
and
opposed
decay
!
My
gracious
lord
,
you
look
beyond
him
quite
.
The
Prince
but
studies
his
companions
Like
a
strange
tongue
,
wherein
,
to
gain
the
language
,
’Tis
needful
that
the
most
immodest
word
Be
looked
upon
and
learned
;
which
,
once
attained
,
Your
Highness
knows
,
comes
to
no
further
use
But
to
be
known
and
hated
.
So
,
like
gross
terms
,
The
Prince
will
,
in
the
perfectness
of
time
,
Cast
off
his
followers
,
and
their
memory
Shall
as
a
pattern
or
a
measure
live
,
By
which
his
Grace
must
mete
the
lives
of
others
,
Turning
past
evils
to
advantages
.
O
Westmoreland
,
thou
art
a
summer
bird
,
Which
ever
in
the
haunch
of
winter
sings
The
lifting
up
of
day
.
Look
,
here’s
more
news
.
My
sovereign
lord
,
cheer
up
yourself
,
look
up
.
No
,
no
,
he
cannot
long
hold
out
these
pangs
.
Th’
incessant
care
and
labor
of
his
mind
Hath
wrought
the
mure
that
should
confine
it
in
So
thin
that
life
looks
through
and
will
break
out
.
No
,
I
will
sit
and
watch
here
by
the
King
.
Why
doth
the
crown
lie
there
upon
his
pillow
,
Being
so
troublesome
a
bedfellow
?
O
polished
perturbation
,
golden
care
,
That
keep’st
the
ports
of
slumber
open
wide
To
many
a
watchful
night
!
Sleep
with
it
now
;
Yet
not
so
sound
and
half
so
deeply
sweet
As
he
whose
brow
with
homely
biggen
bound
Snores
out
the
watch
of
night
.
O
majesty
,
When
thou
dost
pinch
thy
bearer
,
thou
dost
sit
Like
a
rich
armor
worn
in
heat
of
day
,
That
scald’st
with
safety
.
By
his
gates
of
breath
There
lies
a
downy
feather
which
stirs
not
;
Did
he
suspire
,
that
light
and
weightless
down
Perforce
must
move
.
My
gracious
lord
,
my
father
,
This
sleep
is
sound
indeed
.
This
is
a
sleep
That
from
this
golden
rigol
hath
divorced
So
many
English
kings
.
Thy
due
from
me
Is
tears
and
heavy
sorrows
of
the
blood
,
Which
nature
,
love
,
and
filial
tenderness
Shall
,
O
dear
father
,
pay
thee
plenteously
.
My
due
from
thee
is
this
imperial
crown
,
Which
,
as
immediate
from
thy
place
and
blood
,
Derives
itself
to
me
.
Lo
,
where
it
sits
,
Which
God
shall
guard
.
And
,
put
the
world’s
whole
strength
Into
one
giant
arm
,
it
shall
not
force
This
lineal
honor
from
me
.
This
from
thee
Will
I
to
mine
leave
,
as
’tis
left
to
me
.
My
lord
,
I
found
the
Prince
in
the
next
room
,
Washing
with
kindly
tears
his
gentle
cheeks
,
With
such
a
deep
demeanor
in
great
sorrow
That
tyranny
,
which
never
quaffed
but
blood
,
Would
,
by
beholding
him
,
have
washed
his
knife
With
gentle
eyedrops
.
He
is
coming
hither
.
O
pardon
me
,
my
liege
!
But
for
my
tears
,
The
moist
impediments
unto
my
speech
,
I
had
forestalled
this
dear
and
deep
rebuke
Ere
you
with
grief
had
spoke
and
I
had
heard
The
course
of
it
so
far
.
There
is
your
crown
,
And
He
that
wears
the
crown
immortally
Long
guard
it
yours
.
If
I
affect
it
more
Than
as
your
honor
and
as
your
renown
,
Let
me
no
more
from
this
obedience
rise
,
Which
my
most
inward
true
and
duteous
spirit
Teacheth
this
prostrate
and
exterior
bending
.
God
witness
with
me
,
when
I
here
came
in
And
found
no
course
of
breath
within
your
Majesty
,
How
cold
it
struck
my
heart
!
If
I
do
feign
,
O
,
let
me
in
my
present
wildness
die
And
never
live
to
show
th’
incredulous
world
The
noble
change
that
I
have
purposèd
.
Coming
to
look
on
you
,
thinking
you
dead
,
And
dead
almost
,
my
liege
,
to
think
you
were
,
I
spake
unto
this
crown
as
having
sense
,
And
thus
upbraided
it
:
The
care
on
thee
depending
Hath
fed
upon
the
body
of
my
father
;
Therefore
thou
best
of
gold
art
worst
of
gold
.
Other
,
less
fine
in
carat
,
is
more
precious
,
Preserving
life
in
med’cine
potable
;
But
thou
,
most
fine
,
most
honored
,
most
renowned
,
Hast
eat
thy
bearer
up
.
Thus
,
my
most
royal
liege
,
Accusing
it
,
I
put
it
on
my
head
To
try
with
it
,
as
with
an
enemy
That
had
before
my
face
murdered
my
father
,
The
quarrel
of
a
true
inheritor
.
But
if
it
did
infect
my
blood
with
joy
Or
swell
my
thoughts
to
any
strain
of
pride
,
If
any
rebel
or
vain
spirit
of
mine
Did
with
the
least
affection
of
a
welcome
Give
entertainment
to
the
might
of
it
,
Let
God
forever
keep
it
from
my
head
And
make
me
as
the
poorest
vassal
is
That
doth
with
awe
and
terror
kneel
to
it
.
O
my
son
,
God
put
it
in
thy
mind
to
take
it
hence
That
thou
mightst
win
the
more
thy
father’s
love
,
Pleading
so
wisely
in
excuse
of
it
.
Come
hither
,
Harry
,
sit
thou
by
my
bed
And
hear
,
I
think
,
the
very
latest
counsel
That
ever
I
shall
breathe
.
God
knows
,
my
son
,
By
what
bypaths
and
indirect
crook’d
ways
I
met
this
crown
,
and
I
myself
know
well
How
troublesome
it
sat
upon
my
head
.
To
thee
it
shall
descend
with
better
quiet
,
Better
opinion
,
better
confirmation
,
For
all
the
soil
of
the
achievement
goes
With
me
into
the
earth
.
It
seemed
in
me
But
as
an
honor
snatched
with
boist’rous
hand
,
And
I
had
many
living
to
upbraid
My
gain
of
it
by
their
assistances
,
Which
daily
grew
to
quarrel
and
to
bloodshed
,
Wounding
supposèd
peace
.
All
these
bold
fears
Thou
seest
with
peril
I
have
answerèd
,
For
all
my
reign
hath
been
but
as
a
scene
Acting
that
argument
.
And
now
my
death
Changes
the
mood
,
for
what
in
me
was
purchased
Falls
upon
thee
in
a
more
fairer
sort
.
So
thou
the
garland
wear’st
successively
.
Yet
though
thou
stand’st
more
sure
than
I
could
do
,
Thou
art
not
firm
enough
,
since
griefs
are
green
,
And
all
my
friends
,
which
thou
must
make
thy
friends
,
Have
but
their
stings
and
teeth
newly
ta’en
out
,
By
whose
fell
working
I
was
first
advanced
And
by
whose
power
I
well
might
lodge
a
fear
To
be
again
displaced
;
which
to
avoid
,
I
cut
them
off
and
had
a
purpose
now
To
lead
out
many
to
the
Holy
Land
,
Lest
rest
and
lying
still
might
make
them
look
Too
near
unto
my
state
.
Therefore
,
my
Harry
,
Be
it
thy
course
to
busy
giddy
minds
With
foreign
quarrels
,
that
action
,
hence
borne
out
,
May
waste
the
memory
of
the
former
days
.
More
would
I
,
but
my
lungs
are
wasted
so
That
strength
of
speech
is
utterly
denied
me
.
How
I
came
by
the
crown
,
O
God
forgive
,
And
grant
it
may
with
thee
in
true
peace
live
.
Look
,
look
,
here
comes
my
John
of
Lancaster
.
Go
to
,
I
say
,
he
shall
have
no
wrong
.
Look
about
,
Davy
.
Where
are
you
,
Sir
John
?
Come
,
come
,
come
,
off
with
your
boots
.
—
Give
me
your
hand
,
Master
Bardolph
.
I’ll
follow
you
,
good
Master
Robert
Shallow
.
Bardolph
,
look
to
our
horses
.
If
I
were
sawed
into
quantities
,
I
should
make
four
dozen
of
such
bearded
hermits’
staves
as
Master
Shallow
.
It
is
a
wonderful
thing
to
see
the
semblable
coherence
of
his
men’s
spirits
and
his
.
They
,
by
observing
of
him
,
do
bear
themselves
like
foolish
justices
;
he
,
by
conversing
with
them
,
is
turned
into
a
justice-like
servingman
.
Their
spirits
are
so
married
in
conjunction
with
the
participation
of
society
that
they
flock
together
in
consent
like
so
many
wild
geese
.
If
I
had
a
suit
to
Master
Shallow
,
I
would
humor
his
men
with
the
imputation
of
being
near
their
master
;
if
to
his
men
,
I
would
curry
with
Master
Shallow
that
no
man
could
better
command
his
servants
.
It
is
certain
that
either
wise
bearing
or
ignorant
carriage
is
caught
,
as
men
take
diseases
,
one
of
another
.
Therefore
let
men
take
heed
of
their
company
.
I
will
devise
matter
enough
out
of
this
Shallow
to
keep
Prince
Harry
in
continual
laughter
the
wearing
out
of
six
fashions
,
which
is
four
terms
,
or
two
actions
,
and
he
shall
laugh
without
intervallums
.
O
,
it
is
much
that
a
lie
with
a
slight
oath
and
a
jest
with
a
sad
brow
will
do
with
a
fellow
that
never
had
the
ache
in
his
shoulders
.
O
,
you
shall
see
him
laugh
till
his
face
be
like
a
wet
cloak
ill
laid
up
.
I
know
he
doth
not
,
and
do
arm
myself
To
welcome
the
condition
of
the
time
,
Which
cannot
look
more
hideously
upon
me
Than
I
have
drawn
it
in
my
fantasy
.
You
all
look
strangely
on
me
.
And
you
most
.
You
are
,
I
think
,
assured
I
love
you
not
.
I
then
did
use
the
person
of
your
father
;
The
image
of
his
power
lay
then
in
me
.
And
in
th’
administration
of
his
law
,
Whiles
I
was
busy
for
the
commonwealth
,
Your
Highness
pleasèd
to
forget
my
place
,
The
majesty
and
power
of
law
and
justice
,
The
image
of
the
King
whom
I
presented
,
And
struck
me
in
my
very
seat
of
judgment
,
Whereon
,
as
an
offender
to
your
father
,
I
gave
bold
way
to
my
authority
And
did
commit
you
.
If
the
deed
were
ill
,
Be
you
contented
,
wearing
now
the
garland
,
To
have
a
son
set
your
decrees
at
nought
?
To
pluck
down
justice
from
your
awful
bench
?
To
trip
the
course
of
law
and
blunt
the
sword
That
guards
the
peace
and
safety
of
your
person
?
Nay
more
,
to
spurn
at
your
most
royal
image
And
mock
your
workings
in
a
second
body
?
Question
your
royal
thoughts
,
make
the
case
yours
;
Be
now
the
father
and
propose
a
son
,
Hear
your
own
dignity
so
much
profaned
,
See
your
most
dreadful
laws
so
loosely
slighted
,
Behold
yourself
so
by
a
son
disdained
,
And
then
imagine
me
taking
your
part
And
in
your
power
soft
silencing
your
son
.
After
this
cold
considerance
,
sentence
me
,
And
,
as
you
are
a
king
,
speak
in
your
state
What
I
have
done
that
misbecame
my
place
,
My
person
,
or
my
liege’s
sovereignty
.
You
are
right
,
justice
,
and
you
weigh
this
well
.
Therefore
still
bear
the
balance
and
the
sword
.
And
I
do
wish
your
honors
may
increase
Till
you
do
live
to
see
a
son
of
mine
Offend
you
and
obey
you
as
I
did
.
So
shall
I
live
to
speak
my
father’s
words
:
Happy
am
I
that
have
a
man
so
bold
That
dares
do
justice
on
my
proper
son
;
And
not
less
happy
,
having
such
a
son
That
would
deliver
up
his
greatness
so
Into
the
hands
of
justice
.
You
did
commit
me
,
For
which
I
do
commit
into
your
hand
Th’
unstainèd
sword
that
you
have
used
to
bear
,
With
this
remembrance
:
that
you
use
the
same
With
the
like
bold
,
just
,
and
impartial
spirit
As
you
have
done
’gainst
me
.
There
is
my
hand
.
You
shall
be
as
a
father
to
my
youth
,
My
voice
shall
sound
as
you
do
prompt
mine
ear
,
And
I
will
stoop
and
humble
my
intents
To
your
well-practiced
wise
directions
.
—
And
,
princes
all
,
believe
me
,
I
beseech
you
:
My
father
is
gone
wild
into
his
grave
,
For
in
his
tomb
lie
my
affections
,
And
with
his
spirits
sadly
I
survive
To
mock
the
expectation
of
the
world
,
To
frustrate
prophecies
,
and
to
raze
out
Rotten
opinion
,
who
hath
writ
me
down
After
my
seeming
.
The
tide
of
blood
in
me
Hath
proudly
flowed
in
vanity
till
now
.
Now
doth
it
turn
and
ebb
back
to
the
sea
,
Where
it
shall
mingle
with
the
state
of
floods
And
flow
henceforth
in
formal
majesty
.
Now
call
we
our
high
court
of
parliament
,
And
let
us
choose
such
limbs
of
noble
counsel
That
the
great
body
of
our
state
may
go
In
equal
rank
with
the
best-governed
nation
;
That
war
,
or
peace
,
or
both
at
once
,
may
be
As
things
acquainted
and
familiar
to
us
,
In
which
you
,
father
,
shall
have
foremost
hand
.
Our
coronation
done
,
we
will
accite
,
As
I
before
remembered
,
all
our
state
.
And
,
God
consigning
to
my
good
intents
,
No
prince
nor
peer
shall
have
just
cause
to
say
God
shorten
Harry’s
happy
life
one
day
.
Why
,
there
spoke
a
king
.
Lack
nothing
,
be
merry
.
Look
who’s
at
door
there
,
ho
.
Who
knocks
?
O
the
Lord
,
that
Sir
John
were
come
!
I
would
make
this
a
bloody
day
to
somebody
.
But
I
pray
God
the
fruit
of
her
womb
might
miscarry
.
Ay , come , you starved bloodhound .
That
can
hardly
be
,
Master
Shallow
.
Do
not
you
grieve
at
this
.
I
shall
be
sent
for
in
private
to
him
.
Look
you
,
he
must
seem
thus
to
the
world
.
Fear
not
your
advancements
.
I
will
be
the
man
yet
that
shall
make
you
great
.
First
my
fear
,
then
my
curtsy
,
last
my
speech
.
My
fear
is
your
displeasure
,
my
curtsy
my
duty
,
and
my
speech
,
to
beg
your
pardons
.
If
you
look
for
a
good
speech
now
,
you
undo
me
,
for
what
I
have
to
say
is
of
mine
own
making
,
and
what
indeed
I
should
say
will
,
I
doubt
,
prove
mine
own
marring
.
But
to
the
purpose
,
and
so
to
the
venture
.
Be
it
known
to
you
,
as
it
is
very
well
,
I
was
lately
here
in
the
end
of
a
displeasing
play
to
pray
your
patience
for
it
and
to
promise
you
a
better
.
I
meant
indeed
to
pay
you
with
this
,
which
,
if
like
an
ill
venture
it
come
unluckily
home
,
I
break
,
and
you
,
my
gentle
creditors
,
lose
.
Here
I
promised
you
I
would
be
,
and
here
I
commit
my
body
to
your
mercies
.
Bate
me
some
,
and
I
will
pay
you
some
,
and
,
as
most
debtors
do
,
promise
you
infinitely
.
And
so
I
kneel
down
before
you
,
but
,
indeed
,
to
pray
for
the
Queen
.
If
my
tongue
cannot
entreat
you
to
acquit
me
,
will
you
command
me
to
use
my
legs
?
And
yet
that
were
but
light
payment
,
to
dance
out
of
your
debt
.
But
a
good
conscience
will
make
any
possible
satisfaction
,
and
so
would
I
.
All
the
gentlewomen
here
have
forgiven
me
;
if
the
gentlemen
will
not
,
then
the
gentlemen
do
not
agree
with
the
gentlewomen
,
which
was
never
seen
before
in
such
an
assembly
.
One
word
more
,
I
beseech
you
:
if
you
be
not
too
much
cloyed
with
fat
meat
,
our
humble
author
will
continue
the
story
,
with
Sir
John
in
it
,
and
make
you
merry
with
fair
Katherine
of
France
,
where
,
for
anything
I
know
,
Falstaff
shall
die
of
a
sweat
,
unless
already
he
be
killed
with
your
hard
opinions
;
for
Oldcastle
died
a
martyr
,
and
this
is
not
the
man
.
My
tongue
is
weary
;
when
my
legs
are
too
,
I
will
bid
you
good
night
.
The
courses
of
his
youth
promised
it
not
.
The
breath
no
sooner
left
his
father’s
body
But
that
his
wildness
,
mortified
in
him
,
Seemed
to
die
too
.
Yea
,
at
that
very
moment
Consideration
like
an
angel
came
And
whipped
th’
offending
Adam
out
of
him
,
Leaving
his
body
as
a
paradise
T’
envelop
and
contain
celestial
spirits
.
Never
was
such
a
sudden
scholar
made
,
Never
came
reformation
in
a
flood
With
such
a
heady
currance
scouring
faults
,
Nor
never
Hydra-headed
willfulness
So
soon
did
lose
his
seat
,
and
all
at
once
,
As
in
this
king
.
Hear
him
but
reason
in
divinity
And
,
all-admiring
,
with
an
inward
wish
You
would
desire
the
King
were
made
a
prelate
;
Hear
him
debate
of
commonwealth
affairs
,
You
would
say
it
hath
been
all
in
all
his
study
;
List
his
discourse
of
war
,
and
you
shall
hear
A
fearful
battle
rendered
you
in
music
;
Turn
him
to
any
cause
of
policy
,
The
Gordian
knot
of
it
he
will
unloose
Familiar
as
his
garter
;
that
,
when
he
speaks
,
The
air
,
a
chartered
libertine
,
is
still
,
And
the
mute
wonder
lurketh
in
men’s
ears
To
steal
his
sweet
and
honeyed
sentences
;
So
that
the
art
and
practic
part
of
life
Must
be
the
mistress
to
this
theoric
;
Which
is
a
wonder
how
his
Grace
should
glean
it
,
Since
his
addiction
was
to
courses
vain
,
His
companies
unlettered
,
rude
,
and
shallow
,
His
hours
filled
up
with
riots
,
banquets
,
sports
,
And
never
noted
in
him
any
study
,
Any
retirement
,
any
sequestration
From
open
haunts
and
popularity
.
Sure
we
thank
you
.
My
learnèd
lord
,
we
pray
you
to
proceed
And
justly
and
religiously
unfold
Why
the
law
Salic
that
they
have
in
France
Or
should
or
should
not
bar
us
in
our
claim
.
And
God
forbid
,
my
dear
and
faithful
lord
,
That
you
should
fashion
,
wrest
,
or
bow
your
reading
,
Or
nicely
charge
your
understanding
soul
With
opening
titles
miscreate
,
whose
right
Suits
not
in
native
colors
with
the
truth
;
For
God
doth
know
how
many
now
in
health
Shall
drop
their
blood
in
approbation
Of
what
your
reverence
shall
incite
us
to
.
Therefore
take
heed
how
you
impawn
our
person
,
How
you
awake
our
sleeping
sword
of
war
.
We
charge
you
in
the
name
of
God
,
take
heed
,
For
never
two
such
kingdoms
did
contend
Without
much
fall
of
blood
,
whose
guiltless
drops
Are
every
one
a
woe
,
a
sore
complaint
’Gainst
him
whose
wrongs
gives
edge
unto
the
swords
That
makes
such
waste
in
brief
mortality
.
Under
this
conjuration
,
speak
,
my
lord
,
For
we
will
hear
,
note
,
and
believe
in
heart
That
what
you
speak
is
in
your
conscience
washed
As
pure
as
sin
with
baptism
.
Then
hear
me
,
gracious
sovereign
,
and
you
peers
That
owe
yourselves
,
your
lives
,
and
services
To
this
imperial
throne
.
There
is
no
bar
To
make
against
your
Highness’
claim
to
France
But
this
,
which
they
produce
from
Pharamond
:
In
terram
Salicam
mulieres
ne
succedant
(
No
woman
shall
succeed
in
Salic
land
)
,
Which
Salic
land
the
French
unjustly
gloze
To
be
the
realm
of
France
,
and
Pharamond
The
founder
of
this
law
and
female
bar
.
Yet
their
own
authors
faithfully
affirm
That
the
land
Salic
is
in
Germany
,
Between
the
floods
of
Sala
and
of
Elbe
,
Where
Charles
the
Great
,
having
subdued
the
Saxons
,
There
left
behind
and
settled
certain
French
,
Who
,
holding
in
disdain
the
German
women
For
some
dishonest
manners
of
their
life
,
Established
then
this
law
:
to
wit
,
no
female
Should
be
inheritrix
in
Salic
land
,
Which
Salic
,
as
I
said
,
’twixt
Elbe
and
Sala
Is
at
this
day
in
Germany
called
Meissen
.
Then
doth
it
well
appear
the
Salic
law
Was
not
devisèd
for
the
realm
of
France
,
Nor
did
the
French
possess
the
Salic
land
Until
four
hundred
one
and
twenty
years
After
defunction
of
King
Pharamond
,
Idly
supposed
the
founder
of
this
law
,
Who
died
within
the
year
of
our
redemption
Four
hundred
twenty-six
;
and
Charles
the
Great
Subdued
the
Saxons
and
did
seat
the
French
Beyond
the
river
Sala
in
the
year
Eight
hundred
five
.
Besides
,
their
writers
say
,
King
Pepin
,
which
deposèd
Childeric
,
Did
,
as
heir
general
,
being
descended
Of
Blithild
,
which
was
daughter
to
King
Clothair
,
Make
claim
and
title
to
the
crown
of
France
.
Hugh
Capet
also
,
who
usurped
the
crown
Of
Charles
the
Duke
of
Lorraine
,
sole
heir
male
Of
the
true
line
and
stock
of
Charles
the
Great
,
To
find
his
title
with
some
shows
of
truth
,
Though
in
pure
truth
it
was
corrupt
and
naught
,
Conveyed
himself
as
th’
heir
to
th’
Lady
Lingare
,
Daughter
to
Charlemagne
,
who
was
the
son
To
Lewis
the
Emperor
,
and
Lewis
the
son
Of
Charles
the
Great
.
Also
King
Lewis
the
Tenth
,
Who
was
sole
heir
to
the
usurper
Capet
,
Could
not
keep
quiet
in
his
conscience
,
Wearing
the
crown
of
France
,
till
satisfied
That
fair
Queen
Isabel
,
his
grandmother
,
Was
lineal
of
the
Lady
Ermengare
,
Daughter
to
Charles
the
foresaid
Duke
of
Lorraine
:
By
the
which
marriage
the
line
of
Charles
the
Great
Was
reunited
to
the
crown
of
France
.
So
that
,
as
clear
as
is
the
summer’s
sun
,
King
Pepin’s
title
and
Hugh
Capet’s
claim
,
King
Lewis
his
satisfaction
,
all
appear
To
hold
in
right
and
title
of
the
female
.
So
do
the
kings
of
France
unto
this
day
,
Howbeit
they
would
hold
up
this
Salic
law
To
bar
your
Highness
claiming
from
the
female
,
And
rather
choose
to
hide
them
in
a
net
Than
amply
to
imbar
their
crooked
titles
Usurped
from
you
and
your
progenitors
.
The
sin
upon
my
head
,
dread
sovereign
,
For
in
the
Book
of
Numbers
is
it
writ
:
When
the
man
dies
,
let
the
inheritance
Descend
unto
the
daughter
.
Gracious
lord
,
Stand
for
your
own
,
unwind
your
bloody
flag
,
Look
back
into
your
mighty
ancestors
.
Go
,
my
dread
lord
,
to
your
great-grandsire’s
tomb
,
From
whom
you
claim
;
invoke
his
warlike
spirit
And
your
great-uncle’s
,
Edward
the
Black
Prince
,
Who
on
the
French
ground
played
a
tragedy
,
Making
defeat
on
the
full
power
of
France
Whiles
his
most
mighty
father
on
a
hill
Stood
smiling
to
behold
his
lion’s
whelp
Forage
in
blood
of
French
nobility
.
O
noble
English
,
that
could
entertain
With
half
their
forces
the
full
pride
of
France
And
let
another
half
stand
laughing
by
,
All
out
of
work
and
cold
for
action
!
Awake
remembrance
of
these
valiant
dead
And
with
your
puissant
arm
renew
their
feats
.
You
are
their
heir
,
you
sit
upon
their
throne
,
The
blood
and
courage
that
renownèd
them
Runs
in
your
veins
;
and
my
thrice-puissant
liege
Is
in
the
very
May-morn
of
his
youth
,
Ripe
for
exploits
and
mighty
enterprises
.
Your
brother
kings
and
monarchs
of
the
Earth
earth
Do
all
expect
that
you
should
rouse
yourself
As
did
the
former
lions
of
your
blood
.
O
,
let
their
bodies
follow
,
my
dear
liege
,
With
blood
and
sword
and
fire
to
win
your
right
,
In
aid
whereof
we
of
the
spiritualty
Will
raise
your
Highness
such
a
mighty
sum
As
never
did
the
clergy
at
one
time
Bring
in
to
any
of
your
ancestors
.
Therefore
doth
heaven
divide
The
state
of
man
in
divers
functions
,
Setting
endeavor
in
continual
motion
,
To
which
is
fixèd
as
an
aim
or
butt
Obedience
;
for
so
work
the
honeybees
,
Creatures
that
by
a
rule
in
nature
teach
The
act
of
order
to
a
peopled
kingdom
.
They
have
a
king
and
officers
of
sorts
,
Where
some
like
magistrates
correct
at
home
,
Others
like
merchants
venture
trade
abroad
,
Others
like
soldiers
armèd
in
their
stings
Make
boot
upon
the
summer’s
velvet
buds
,
Which
pillage
they
with
merry
march
bring
home
To
the
tent
royal
of
their
emperor
,
Who
,
busied
in
his
majesty
,
surveys
The
singing
masons
building
roofs
of
gold
,
The
civil
citizens
kneading
up
the
honey
,
The
poor
mechanic
porters
crowding
in
Their
heavy
burdens
at
his
narrow
gate
,
The
sad-eyed
justice
with
his
surly
hum
Delivering
o’er
to
executors
pale
The
lazy
yawning
drone
.
I
this
infer
:
That
many
things
,
having
full
reference
To
one
consent
,
may
work
contrariously
,
As
many
arrows
loosèd
several
ways
Come
to
one
mark
,
as
many
ways
meet
in
one
town
,
As
many
fresh
streams
meet
in
one
salt
sea
,
As
many
lines
close
in
the
dial’s
center
,
So
may
a
thousand
actions
,
once
afoot
,
End
in
one
purpose
and
be
all
well
borne
Without
defeat
.
Therefore
to
France
,
my
liege
!
Divide
your
happy
England
into
four
,
Whereof
take
you
one
quarter
into
France
,
And
you
withal
shall
make
all
Gallia
shake
.
If
we
,
with
thrice
such
powers
left
at
home
,
Cannot
defend
our
own
doors
from
the
dog
,
Let
us
be
worried
,
and
our
nation
lose
The
name
of
hardiness
and
policy
.
We
are
glad
the
Dauphin
is
so
pleasant
with
us
.
His
present
and
your
pains
we
thank
you
for
.
When
we
have
matched
our
rackets
to
these
balls
,
We
will
in
France
,
by
God’s
grace
,
play
a
set
Shall
strike
his
father’s
crown
into
the
hazard
.
Tell
him
he
hath
made
a
match
with
such
a
wrangler
That
all
the
courts
of
France
will
be
disturbed
With
chases
.
And
we
understand
him
well
,
How
he
comes
o’er
us
with
our
wilder
days
,
Not
measuring
what
use
we
made
of
them
.
We
never
valued
this
poor
seat
of
England
,
And
therefore
,
living
hence
,
did
give
ourself
To
barbarous
license
,
as
’tis
ever
common
That
men
are
merriest
when
they
are
from
home
.
But
tell
the
Dauphin
I
will
keep
my
state
,
Be
like
a
king
,
and
show
my
sail
of
greatness
When
I
do
rouse
me
in
my
throne
of
France
,
For
that
I
have
laid
by
my
majesty
And
plodded
like
a
man
for
working
days
;
But
I
will
rise
there
with
so
full
a
glory
That
I
will
dazzle
all
the
eyes
of
France
,
Yea
,
strike
the
Dauphin
blind
to
look
on
us
.
And
tell
the
pleasant
prince
this
mock
of
his
Hath
turned
his
balls
to
gun-stones
,
and
his
soul
Shall
stand
sore
chargèd
for
the
wasteful
vengeance
That
shall
fly
with
them
;
for
many
a
thousand
widows
Shall
this
his
mock
mock
out
of
their
dear
husbands
,
Mock
mothers
from
their
sons
,
mock
castles
down
;
And
some
are
yet
ungotten
and
unborn
That
shall
have
cause
to
curse
the
Dauphin’s
scorn
.
But
this
lies
all
within
the
will
of
God
,
To
whom
I
do
appeal
,
and
in
whose
name
Tell
you
the
Dauphin
I
am
coming
on
,
To
venge
me
as
I
may
and
to
put
forth
My
rightful
hand
in
a
well-hallowed
cause
.
So
get
you
hence
in
peace
.
And
tell
the
Dauphin
His
jest
will
savor
but
of
shallow
wit
When
thousands
weep
more
than
did
laugh
at
it
.
—
Convey
them
with
safe
conduct
.
—
Fare
you
well
.
Let
floods
o’erswell
and
fiends
for
food
howl
on
!
Then
Richard
,
Earl
of
Cambridge
,
there
is
yours
—
There
yours
,
Lord
Scroop
of
Masham
.
—
And
,
sir
knight
,
Grey
of
Northumberland
,
this
same
is
yours
.
—
Read
them
,
and
know
I
know
your
worthiness
.
—
My
Lord
of
Westmoreland
and
uncle
Exeter
,
We
will
aboard
tonight
.
—
Why
how
now
,
gentlemen
?
What
see
you
in
those
papers
,
that
you
lose
So
much
complexion
?
—
Look
you
,
how
they
change
.
Their
cheeks
are
paper
.
—
Why
,
what
read
you
there
That
have
so
cowarded
and
chased
your
blood
Out
of
appearance
?
The
mercy
that
was
quick
in
us
but
late
By
your
own
counsel
is
suppressed
and
killed
.
You
must
not
dare
,
for
shame
,
to
talk
of
mercy
,
For
your
own
reasons
turn
into
your
bosoms
As
dogs
upon
their
masters
,
worrying
you
.
—
See
you
,
my
princes
and
my
noble
peers
,
These
English
monsters
.
My
Lord
of
Cambridge
here
,
You
know
how
apt
our
love
was
to
accord
To
furnish
him
with
all
appurtenants
Belonging
to
his
honor
,
and
this
man
Hath
,
for
a
few
light
crowns
,
lightly
conspired
And
sworn
unto
the
practices
of
France
To
kill
us
here
in
Hampton
;
to
the
which
This
knight
,
no
less
for
bounty
bound
to
us
Than
Cambridge
is
,
hath
likewise
sworn
.
—
But
O
,
What
shall
I
say
to
thee
,
Lord
Scroop
,
thou
cruel
,
Ingrateful
,
savage
,
and
inhuman
creature
?
Thou
that
didst
bear
the
key
of
all
my
counsels
,
That
knew’st
the
very
bottom
of
my
soul
,
That
almost
mightst
have
coined
me
into
gold
,
Wouldst
thou
have
practiced
on
me
for
thy
use
—
May
it
be
possible
that
foreign
hire
Could
out
of
thee
extract
one
spark
of
evil
That
might
annoy
my
finger
?
’Tis
so
strange
That
,
though
the
truth
of
it
stands
off
as
gross
As
black
and
white
,
my
eye
will
scarcely
see
it
.
Treason
and
murder
ever
kept
together
,
As
two
yoke-devils
sworn
to
either’s
purpose
,
Working
so
grossly
in
a
natural
cause
That
admiration
did
not
whoop
at
them
.
But
thou
,
’gainst
all
proportion
,
didst
bring
in
Wonder
to
wait
on
treason
and
on
murder
,
And
whatsoever
cunning
fiend
it
was
That
wrought
upon
thee
so
preposterously
Hath
got
the
voice
in
hell
for
excellence
.
All
other
devils
that
suggest
by
treasons
Do
botch
and
bungle
up
damnation
With
patches
,
colors
,
and
with
forms
being
fetched
From
glist’ring
semblances
of
piety
;
But
he
that
tempered
thee
bade
thee
stand
up
,
Gave
thee
no
instance
why
thou
shouldst
do
treason
,
Unless
to
dub
thee
with
the
name
of
traitor
.
If
that
same
demon
that
hath
gulled
thee
thus
Should
with
his
lion
gait
walk
the
whole
world
,
He
might
return
to
vasty
Tartar
back
And
tell
the
legions
I
can
never
win
A
soul
so
easy
as
that
Englishman’s
.
O
,
how
hast
thou
with
jealousy
infected
The
sweetness
of
affiance
!
Show
men
dutiful
?
Why
,
so
didst
thou
.
Seem
they
grave
and
learnèd
?
Why
,
so
didst
thou
.
Come
they
of
noble
family
?
Why
,
so
didst
thou
.
Seem
they
religious
?
Why
,
so
didst
thou
.
Or
are
they
spare
in
diet
,
Free
from
gross
passion
or
of
mirth
or
anger
,
Constant
in
spirit
,
not
swerving
with
the
blood
,
Garnished
and
decked
in
modest
complement
,
Not
working
with
the
eye
without
the
ear
,
And
but
in
purgèd
judgment
trusting
neither
?
Such
and
so
finely
bolted
didst
thou
seem
.
And
thus
thy
fall
hath
left
a
kind
of
blot
To
mark
the
full-fraught
man
and
best
endued
With
some
suspicion
.
I
will
weep
for
thee
,
For
this
revolt
of
thine
methinks
is
like
Another
fall
of
man
.
—
Their
faults
are
open
.
Arrest
them
to
the
answer
of
the
law
,
And
God
acquit
them
of
their
practices
.
Come
,
let’s
away
.
—
My
love
,
give
me
thy
lips
.
Look
to
my
chattels
and
my
movables
.
Let
senses
rule
.
The
word
is
Pitch
and
pay
.
Trust
none
,
for
oaths
are
straws
,
men’s
faiths
are
wafer-cakes
,
and
Holdfast
is
the
only
dog
,
my
duck
.
Therefore
,
Caveto
be
thy
counselor
.
Go
,
clear
thy
crystals
.
—
Yoke-fellows
in
arms
,
let
us
to
France
,
like
horse-leeches
,
my
boys
,
to
suck
,
to
suck
,
the
very
blood
to
suck
.
Think
we
King
Harry
strong
,
And
,
princes
,
look
you
strongly
arm
to
meet
him
.
The
kindred
of
him
hath
been
fleshed
upon
us
,
And
he
is
bred
out
of
that
bloody
strain
That
haunted
us
in
our
familiar
paths
.
Witness
our
too-much-memorable
shame
When
Cressy
battle
fatally
was
struck
And
all
our
princes
captived
by
the
hand
Of
that
black
name
,
Edward
,
Black
Prince
of
Wales
,
Whiles
that
his
mountain
sire
,
on
mountain
standing
Up
in
the
air
,
crowned
with
the
golden
sun
,
Saw
his
heroical
seed
and
smiled
to
see
him
Mangle
the
work
of
nature
and
deface
The
patterns
that
by
God
and
by
French
fathers
Had
twenty
years
been
made
.
This
is
a
stem
Of
that
victorious
stock
,
and
let
us
fear
The
native
mightiness
and
fate
of
him
.
From
him
,
and
thus
he
greets
your
Majesty
:
He
wills
you
,
in
the
name
of
God
almighty
,
That
you
divest
yourself
and
lay
apart
The
borrowed
glories
that
,
by
gift
of
heaven
,
By
law
of
nature
and
of
nations
,
’longs
To
him
and
to
his
heirs
—
namely
,
the
crown
And
all
wide-stretchèd
honors
that
pertain
By
custom
and
the
ordinance
of
times
Unto
the
crown
of
France
.
That
you
may
know
’Tis
no
sinister
nor
no
awkward
claim
Picked
from
the
wormholes
of
long-vanished
days
Nor
from
the
dust
of
old
oblivion
raked
,
He
sends
you
this
most
memorable
line
,
In
every
branch
truly
demonstrative
,
Willing
you
overlook
this
pedigree
,
And
when
you
find
him
evenly
derived
From
his
most
famed
of
famous
ancestors
,
Edward
the
Third
,
he
bids
you
then
resign
Your
crown
and
kingdom
,
indirectly
held
From
him
,
the
native
and
true
challenger
.
Bloody
constraint
,
for
if
you
hide
the
crown
Even
in
your
hearts
,
there
will
he
rake
for
it
.
Therefore
in
fierce
tempest
is
he
coming
,
In
thunder
and
in
earthquake
like
a
Jove
,
That
,
if
requiring
fail
,
he
will
compel
,
And
bids
you
,
in
the
bowels
of
the
Lord
,
Deliver
up
the
crown
and
to
take
mercy
On
the
poor
souls
for
whom
this
hungry
war
Opens
his
vasty
jaws
,
and
on
your
head
Turning
the
widows’
tears
,
the
orphans’
cries
,
The
dead
men’s
blood
,
the
privèd
maidens’
groans
,
For
husbands
,
fathers
,
and
betrothèd
lovers
That
shall
be
swallowed
in
this
controversy
.
This
is
his
claim
,
his
threat’ning
,
and
my
message
—
Unless
the
Dauphin
be
in
presence
here
,
To
whom
expressly
I
bring
greeting
too
.
Once
more
unto
the
breach
,
dear
friends
,
once
more
,
Or
close
the
wall
up
with
our
English
dead
!
In
peace
there’s
nothing
so
becomes
a
man
As
modest
stillness
and
humility
,
But
when
the
blast
of
war
blows
in
our
ears
,
Then
imitate
the
action
of
the
tiger
:
Stiffen
the
sinews
,
summon
up
the
blood
,
Disguise
fair
nature
with
hard-favored
rage
,
Then
lend
the
eye
a
terrible
aspect
,
Let
it
pry
through
the
portage
of
the
head
Like
the
brass
cannon
,
let
the
brow
o’erwhelm
it
As
fearfully
as
doth
a
gallèd
rock
O’erhang
and
jutty
his
confounded
base
Swilled
with
the
wild
and
wasteful
ocean
.
Now
set
the
teeth
,
and
stretch
the
nostril
wide
,
Hold
hard
the
breath
,
and
bend
up
every
spirit
To
his
full
height
.
On
,
on
,
you
noblest
English
,
Whose
blood
is
fet
from
fathers
of
war-proof
,
Fathers
that
,
like
so
many
Alexanders
,
Have
in
these
parts
from
morn
till
even
fought
,
And
sheathed
their
swords
for
lack
of
argument
.
Dishonor
not
your
mothers
.
Now
attest
That
those
whom
you
called
fathers
did
beget
you
.
Be
copy
now
to
men
of
grosser
blood
And
teach
them
how
to
war
.
And
you
,
good
yeomen
,
Whose
limbs
were
made
in
England
,
show
us
here
The
mettle
of
your
pasture
.
Let
us
swear
That
you
are
worth
your
breeding
,
which
I
doubt
not
,
For
there
is
none
of
you
so
mean
and
base
That
hath
not
noble
luster
in
your
eyes
.
I
see
you
stand
like
greyhounds
in
the
slips
,
Straining
upon
the
start
.
The
game’s
afoot
.
Follow
your
spirit
,
and
upon
this
charge
Cry
God
for
Harry
,
England
,
and
Saint
George
!
The
plainsong
is
most
just
,
for
humors
do
abound
.
Knocks
go
and
come
.
God’s
vassals
drop
and
die
,
And
sword
and
shield
,
In
bloody
field
,
Doth
win
immortal
fame
.
To
the
mines
?
Tell
you
the
Duke
it
is
not
so
good
to
come
to
the
mines
,
for
,
look
you
,
the
mines
is
not
according
to
the
disciplines
of
the
war
.
The
concavities
of
it
is
not
sufficient
,
for
,
look
you
,
th’
athversary
,
you
may
discuss
unto
the
Duke
,
look
you
,
is
digt
himself
four
yard
under
the
countermines
.
By
Cheshu
,
I
think
he
will
plow
up
all
if
there
is
not
better
directions
.
By
Cheshu
,
he
is
an
ass
,
as
in
the
world
.
I
will
verify
as
much
in
his
beard
.
He
has
no
more
directions
in
the
true
disciplines
of
the
wars
,
look
you
,
of
the
Roman
disciplines
,
than
is
a
puppy
dog
.
Captain
Macmorris
,
I
beseech
you
now
,
will
you
voutsafe
me
,
look
you
,
a
few
disputations
with
you
as
partly
touching
or
concerning
the
disciplines
of
the
war
,
the
Roman
wars
?
In
the
way
of
argument
,
look
you
,
and
friendly
communication
,
partly
to
satisfy
my
opinion
,
and
partly
for
the
satisfaction
,
look
you
,
of
my
mind
,
as
touching
the
direction
of
the
military
discipline
,
that
is
the
point
.
Captain
Macmorris
,
I
think
,
look
you
,
under
your
correction
,
there
is
not
many
of
your
nation
—
Look
you
,
if
you
take
the
matter
otherwise
than
is
meant
,
Captain
Macmorris
,
peradventure
I
shall
think
you
do
not
use
me
with
that
affability
as
,
in
discretion
,
you
ought
to
use
me
,
look
you
,
being
as
good
a
man
as
yourself
,
both
in
the
disciplines
of
war
and
in
the
derivation
of
my
birth
,
and
in
other
particularities
.
Captain
Macmorris
,
when
there
is
more
better
opportunity
to
be
required
,
look
you
,
I
will
be
so
bold
as
to
tell
you
I
know
the
disciplines
of
war
,
and
there
is
an
end
.
How
yet
resolves
the
Governor
of
the
town
?
This
is
the
latest
parle
we
will
admit
.
Therefore
to
our
best
mercy
give
yourselves
Or
,
like
to
men
proud
of
destruction
,
Defy
us
to
our
worst
.
For
,
as
I
am
a
soldier
,
A
name
that
in
my
thoughts
becomes
me
best
,
If
I
begin
the
batt’ry
once
again
,
I
will
not
leave
the
half-achieved
Harfleur
Till
in
her
ashes
she
lie
burièd
.
The
gates
of
mercy
shall
be
all
shut
up
,
And
the
fleshed
soldier
,
rough
and
hard
of
heart
,
In
liberty
of
bloody
hand
,
shall
range
With
conscience
wide
as
hell
,
mowing
like
grass
Your
fresh
fair
virgins
and
your
flow’ring
infants
.
What
is
it
then
to
me
if
impious
war
,
Arrayed
in
flames
like
to
the
prince
of
fiends
,
Do
with
his
smirched
complexion
all
fell
feats
Enlinked
to
waste
and
desolation
?
What
is
’t
to
me
,
when
you
yourselves
are
cause
,
If
your
pure
maidens
fall
into
the
hand
Of
hot
and
forcing
violation
?
What
rein
can
hold
licentious
wickedness
When
down
the
hill
he
holds
his
fierce
career
?
We
may
as
bootless
spend
our
vain
command
Upon
th’
enragèd
soldiers
in
their
spoil
As
send
precepts
to
the
Leviathan
To
come
ashore
.
Therefore
,
you
men
of
Harfleur
,
Take
pity
of
your
town
and
of
your
people
Whiles
yet
my
soldiers
are
in
my
command
,
Whiles
yet
the
cool
and
temperate
wind
of
grace
O’erblows
the
filthy
and
contagious
clouds
Of
heady
murder
,
spoil
,
and
villainy
.
If
not
,
why
,
in
a
moment
look
to
see
The
blind
and
bloody
soldier
with
foul
hand
Desire
the
locks
of
your
shrill-shrieking
daughters
,
Your
fathers
taken
by
the
silver
beards
And
their
most
reverend
heads
dashed
to
the
walls
,
Your
naked
infants
spitted
upon
pikes
Whiles
the
mad
mothers
with
their
howls
confused
Do
break
the
clouds
,
as
did
the
wives
of
Jewry
At
Herod’s
bloody-hunting
slaughtermen
.
What
say
you
?
Will
you
yield
and
this
avoid
Or
,
guilty
in
defense
,
be
thus
destroyed
?
Ô
Dieu
vivant
,
shall
a
few
sprays
of
us
,
The
emptying
of
our
fathers’
luxury
,
Our
scions
,
put
in
wild
and
savage
stock
,
Spurt
up
so
suddenly
into
the
clouds
And
overlook
their
grafters
?
Dieu
de
batailles
,
where
have
they
this
mettle
?
Is
not
their
climate
foggy
,
raw
,
and
dull
,
On
whom
,
as
in
despite
,
the
sun
looks
pale
,
Killing
their
fruit
with
frowns
?
Can
sodden
water
,
A
drench
for
sur-reined
jades
,
their
barley
broth
,
Decoct
their
cold
blood
to
such
valiant
heat
?
And
shall
our
quick
blood
,
spirited
with
wine
,
Seem
frosty
?
O
,
for
honor
of
our
land
,
Let
us
not
hang
like
roping
icicles
Upon
our
houses’
thatch
,
whiles
a
more
frosty
people
Sweat
drops
of
gallant
youth
in
our
rich
fields
!
Poor
we
may
call
them
in
their
native
lords
.
Where
is
Montjoy
the
herald
?
Speed
him
hence
.
Let
him
greet
England
with
our
sharp
defiance
.
Up
,
princes
,
and
,
with
spirit
of
honor
edged
More
sharper
than
your
swords
,
hie
to
the
field
:
Charles
Delabreth
,
High
Constable
of
France
;
You
Dukes
of
Orléans
,
Bourbon
,
and
of
Berri
,
Alençon
,
Brabant
,
Bar
,
and
Burgundy
;
Jacques
Chatillon
,
Rambures
,
Vaudemont
,
Beaumont
,
Grandpré
,
Roussi
,
and
Faulconbridge
,
Foix
,
Lestrale
,
Bouciquault
,
and
Charolois
;
High
dukes
,
great
princes
,
barons
,
lords
,
and
knights
,
For
your
great
seats
now
quit
you
of
great
shames
.
Bar
Harry
England
,
that
sweeps
through
our
land
With
pennons
painted
in
the
blood
of
Harfleur
.
Rush
on
his
host
,
as
doth
the
melted
snow
Upon
the
valleys
,
whose
low
vassal
seat
The
Alps
doth
spit
and
void
his
rheum
upon
.
Go
down
upon
him
—
you
have
power
enough
—
And
in
a
captive
chariot
into
Rouen
Bring
him
our
prisoner
.
By
your
patience
,
Aunchient
Pistol
,
Fortune
is
painted
blind
,
with
a
muffler
afore
her
eyes
,
to
signify
to
you
that
Fortune
is
blind
;
and
she
is
painted
also
with
a
wheel
to
signify
to
you
,
which
is
the
moral
of
it
,
that
she
is
turning
and
inconstant
,
and
mutability
and
variation
;
and
her
foot
,
look
you
,
is
fixed
upon
a
spherical
stone
,
which
rolls
and
rolls
and
rolls
.
In
good
truth
,
the
poet
makes
a
most
excellent
description
of
it
.
Fortune
is
an
excellent
moral
.
Certainly
,
aunchient
,
it
is
not
a
thing
to
rejoice
at
,
for
if
,
look
you
,
he
were
my
brother
,
I
would
desire
the
Duke
to
use
his
good
pleasure
and
put
him
to
execution
,
for
discipline
ought
to
be
used
.
Ay
,
so
please
your
Majesty
.
The
Duke
of
Exeter
has
very
gallantly
maintained
the
pridge
.
The
French
is
gone
off
,
look
you
,
and
there
is
gallant
and
most
prave
passages
.
Marry
,
th’
athversary
was
have
possession
of
the
pridge
,
but
he
is
enforced
to
retire
,
and
the
Duke
of
Exeter
is
master
of
the
pridge
.
I
can
tell
your
Majesty
,
the
Duke
is
a
prave
man
.
Thus
says
my
king
:
Say
thou
to
Harry
of
England
,
though
we
seemed
dead
,
we
did
but
sleep
.
Advantage
is
a
better
soldier
than
rashness
.
Tell
him
we
could
have
rebuked
him
at
Harfleur
,
but
that
we
thought
not
good
to
bruise
an
injury
till
it
were
full
ripe
.
Now
we
speak
upon
our
cue
,
and
our
voice
is
imperial
.
England
shall
repent
his
folly
,
see
his
weakness
,
and
admire
our
sufferance
.
Bid
him
therefore
consider
of
his
ransom
,
which
must
proportion
the
losses
we
have
borne
,
the
subjects
we
have
lost
,
the
disgrace
we
have
digested
,
which
,
in
weight
to
reanswer
,
his
pettiness
would
bow
under
.
For
our
losses
,
his
exchequer
is
too
poor
;
for
th’
effusion
of
our
blood
,
the
muster
of
his
kingdom
too
faint
a
number
;
and
for
our
disgrace
,
his
own
person
kneeling
at
our
feet
but
a
weak
and
worthless
satisfaction
.
To
this
,
add
defiance
,
and
tell
him
,
for
conclusion
,
he
hath
betrayed
his
followers
,
whose
condemnation
is
pronounced
.
So
far
my
king
and
master
;
so
much
my
office
.
Thou
dost
thy
office
fairly
.
Turn
thee
back
,
And
tell
thy
king
I
do
not
seek
him
now
But
could
be
willing
to
march
on
to
Calais
Without
impeachment
,
for
,
to
say
the
sooth
,
Though
’tis
no
wisdom
to
confess
so
much
Unto
an
enemy
of
craft
and
vantage
,
My
people
are
with
sickness
much
enfeebled
,
My
numbers
lessened
,
and
those
few
I
have
Almost
no
better
than
so
many
French
,
Who
when
they
were
in
health
,
I
tell
thee
,
herald
,
I
thought
upon
one
pair
of
English
legs
Did
march
three
Frenchmen
.
Yet
forgive
me
,
God
,
That
I
do
brag
thus
.
This
your
air
of
France
Hath
blown
that
vice
in
me
.
I
must
repent
.
Go
therefore
,
tell
thy
master
:
here
I
am
.
My
ransom
is
this
frail
and
worthless
trunk
,
My
army
but
a
weak
and
sickly
guard
,
Yet
,
God
before
,
tell
him
we
will
come
on
Though
France
himself
and
such
another
neighbor
Stand
in
our
way
.
There’s
for
thy
labor
,
Montjoy
.
Go
bid
thy
master
well
advise
himself
:
If
we
may
pass
,
we
will
;
if
we
be
hindered
,
We
shall
your
tawny
ground
with
your
red
blood
Discolor
.
And
so
,
Montjoy
,
fare
you
well
.
The
sum
of
all
our
answer
is
but
this
:
We
would
not
seek
a
battle
as
we
are
,
Nor
,
as
we
are
,
we
say
we
will
not
shun
it
.
So
tell
your
master
.
Now
entertain
conjecture
of
a
time
When
creeping
murmur
and
the
poring
dark
Fills
the
wide
vessel
of
the
universe
.
From
camp
to
camp
,
through
the
foul
womb
of
night
,
The
hum
of
either
army
stilly
sounds
,
That
the
fixed
sentinels
almost
receive
The
secret
whispers
of
each
other’s
watch
.
Fire
answers
fire
,
and
through
their
paly
flames
Each
battle
sees
the
other’s
umbered
face
;
Steed
threatens
steed
in
high
and
boastful
neighs
Piercing
the
night’s
dull
ear
;
and
from
the
tents
The
armorers
,
accomplishing
the
knights
,
With
busy
hammers
closing
rivets
up
,
Give
dreadful
note
of
preparation
.
The
country
cocks
do
crow
,
the
clocks
do
toll
,
And
,
the
third
hour
of
drowsy
morning
named
,
Proud
of
their
numbers
and
secure
in
soul
,
The
confident
and
overlusty
French
Do
the
low-rated
English
play
at
dice
And
chide
the
cripple
,
tardy-gaited
night
,
Who
like
a
foul
and
ugly
witch
doth
limp
So
tediously
away
.
The
poor
condemnèd
English
,
Like
sacrifices
,
by
their
watchful
fires
Sit
patiently
and
inly
ruminate
The
morning’s
danger
;
and
their
gesture
sad
,
Investing
lank-lean
cheeks
and
war-worn
coats
,
Presenteth
them
unto
the
gazing
moon
So
many
horrid
ghosts
.
O
now
,
who
will
behold
The
royal
captain
of
this
ruined
band
Walking
from
watch
to
watch
,
from
tent
to
tent
,
Let
him
cry
,
Praise
and
glory
on
his
head
!
For
forth
he
goes
and
visits
all
his
host
,
Bids
them
good
morrow
with
a
modest
smile
,
And
calls
them
brothers
,
friends
,
and
countrymen
.
Upon
his
royal
face
there
is
no
note
How
dread
an
army
hath
enrounded
him
,
Nor
doth
he
dedicate
one
jot
of
color
Unto
the
weary
and
all-watchèd
night
,
But
freshly
looks
and
overbears
attaint
With
cheerful
semblance
and
sweet
majesty
,
That
every
wretch
,
pining
and
pale
before
,
Beholding
him
,
plucks
comfort
from
his
looks
.
A
largesse
universal
,
like
the
sun
,
His
liberal
eye
doth
give
to
everyone
,
Thawing
cold
fear
,
that
mean
and
gentle
all
Behold
,
as
may
unworthiness
define
,
A
little
touch
of
Harry
in
the
night
.
And
so
our
scene
must
to
the
battle
fly
,
Where
,
O
for
pity
,
we
shall
much
disgrace
,
With
four
or
five
most
vile
and
ragged
foils
Right
ill-disposed
in
brawl
ridiculous
,
The
name
of
Agincourt
.
Yet
sit
and
see
,
Minding
true
things
by
what
their
mock’ries
be
.
If
the
enemy
is
an
ass
and
a
fool
and
a
prating
coxcomb
,
is
it
meet
,
think
you
,
that
we
should
also
,
look
you
,
be
an
ass
and
a
fool
and
a
prating
coxcomb
,
in
your
own
conscience
now
?
Even
as
men
wracked
upon
a
sand
,
that
look
to
be
washed
off
the
next
tide
.
But
if
the
cause
be
not
good
,
the
King
himself
hath
a
heavy
reckoning
to
make
,
when
all
those
legs
and
arms
and
heads
,
chopped
off
in
a
battle
,
shall
join
together
at
the
latter
day
,
and
cry
all
We
died
at
such
a
place
,
some
swearing
,
some
crying
for
a
surgeon
,
some
upon
their
wives
left
poor
behind
them
,
some
upon
the
debts
they
owe
,
some
upon
their
children
rawly
left
.
I
am
afeard
there
are
few
die
well
that
die
in
a
battle
,
for
how
can
they
charitably
dispose
of
anything
when
blood
is
their
argument
?
Now
,
if
these
men
do
not
die
well
,
it
will
be
a
black
matter
for
the
king
that
led
them
to
it
,
who
to
disobey
were
against
all
proportion
of
subjection
.
O
God
of
battles
,
steel
my
soldiers’
hearts
.
Possess
them
not
with
fear
.
Take
from
them
now
The
sense
of
reck’ning
or
th’
opposèd
numbers
Pluck
their
hearts
from
them
.
Not
today
,
O
Lord
,
O
,
not
today
,
think
not
upon
the
fault
My
father
made
in
compassing
the
crown
.
I
Richard’s
body
have
interrèd
new
And
on
it
have
bestowed
more
contrite
tears
Than
from
it
issued
forcèd
drops
of
blood
.
Five
hundred
poor
I
have
in
yearly
pay
Who
twice
a
day
their
withered
hands
hold
up
Toward
heaven
to
pardon
blood
.
And
I
have
built
Two
chantries
where
the
sad
and
solemn
priests
Sing
still
for
Richard’s
soul
.
More
will
I
do
—
Though
all
that
I
can
do
is
nothing
worth
,
Since
that
my
penitence
comes
after
all
,
Imploring
pardon
.
Mount
them
,
and
make
incision
in
their
hides
,
That
their
hot
blood
may
spin
in
English
eyes
And
dout
them
with
superfluous
courage
.
Ha
!
What
,
will
you
have
them
weep
our
horses’
blood
?
How
shall
we
then
behold
their
natural
tears
?
To
horse
,
you
gallant
princes
,
straight
to
horse
.
Do
but
behold
yond
poor
and
starvèd
band
,
And
your
fair
show
shall
suck
away
their
souls
,
Leaving
them
but
the
shales
and
husks
of
men
.
There
is
not
work
enough
for
all
our
hands
,
Scarce
blood
enough
in
all
their
sickly
veins
To
give
each
naked
curtal
ax
a
stain
,
That
our
French
gallants
shall
today
draw
out
And
sheathe
for
lack
of
sport
.
Let
us
but
blow
on
them
,
The
vapor
of
our
valor
will
o’erturn
them
.
’Tis
positive
against
all
exceptions
,
lords
,
That
our
superfluous
lackeys
and
our
peasants
,
Who
in
unnecessary
action
swarm
About
our
squares
of
battle
,
were
enough
To
purge
this
field
of
such
a
hilding
foe
,
Though
we
upon
this
mountain’s
basis
by
Took
stand
for
idle
speculation
,
But
that
our
honors
must
not
.
What’s
to
say
?
A
very
little
little
let
us
do
,
And
all
is
done
.
Then
let
the
trumpets
sound
The
tucket
sonance
and
the
note
to
mount
,
For
our
approach
shall
so
much
dare
the
field
That
England
shall
couch
down
in
fear
and
yield
.
Why
do
you
stay
so
long
,
my
lords
of
France
?
Yond
island
carrions
,
desperate
of
their
bones
,
Ill-favoredly
become
the
morning
field
.
Their
ragged
curtains
poorly
are
let
loose
,
And
our
air
shakes
them
passing
scornfully
.
Big
Mars
seems
bankrupt
in
their
beggared
host
And
faintly
through
a
rusty
beaver
peeps
.
The
horsemen
sit
like
fixèd
candlesticks
With
torch
staves
in
their
hand
,
and
their
poor
jades
Lob
down
their
heads
,
drooping
the
hides
and
hips
,
The
gum
down-roping
from
their
pale
dead
eyes
,
And
in
their
pale
dull
mouths
the
gemeled
bit
Lies
foul
with
chawed
grass
,
still
and
motionless
.
And
their
executors
,
the
knavish
crows
,
Fly
o’er
them
all
,
impatient
for
their
hour
.
Description
cannot
suit
itself
in
words
To
demonstrate
the
life
of
such
a
battle
In
life
so
lifeless
,
as
it
shows
itself
.
What’s
he
that
wishes
so
?
My
cousin
Westmoreland
?
No
,
my
fair
cousin
.
If
we
are
marked
to
die
,
we
are
enough
To
do
our
country
loss
;
and
if
to
live
,
The
fewer
men
,
the
greater
share
of
honor
.
God’s
will
,
I
pray
thee
wish
not
one
man
more
.
By
Jove
,
I
am
not
covetous
for
gold
,
Nor
care
I
who
doth
feed
upon
my
cost
;
It
yearns
me
not
if
men
my
garments
wear
;
Such
outward
things
dwell
not
in
my
desires
.
But
if
it
be
a
sin
to
covet
honor
,
I
am
the
most
offending
soul
alive
.
No
,
’faith
,
my
coz
,
wish
not
a
man
from
England
.
God’s
peace
,
I
would
not
lose
so
great
an
honor
As
one
man
more
,
methinks
,
would
share
from
me
,
For
the
best
hope
I
have
.
O
,
do
not
wish
one
more
!
Rather
proclaim
it
,
Westmoreland
,
through
my
host
,
That
he
which
hath
no
stomach
to
this
fight
,
Let
him
depart
.
His
passport
shall
be
made
,
And
crowns
for
convoy
put
into
his
purse
.
We
would
not
die
in
that
man’s
company
That
fears
his
fellowship
to
die
with
us
.
This
day
is
called
the
feast
of
Crispian
.
He
that
outlives
this
day
and
comes
safe
home
Will
stand
o’
tiptoe
when
this
day
is
named
And
rouse
him
at
the
name
of
Crispian
.
He
that
shall
see
this
day
,
and
live
old
age
,
Will
yearly
on
the
vigil
feast
his
neighbors
And
say
Tomorrow
is
Saint
Crispian
.
Then
will
he
strip
his
sleeve
and
show
his
scars
.
Old
men
forget
;
yet
all
shall
be
forgot
,
But
he’ll
remember
with
advantages
What
feats
he
did
that
day
.
Then
shall
our
names
,
Familiar
in
his
mouth
as
household
words
,
Harry
the
King
,
Bedford
and
Exeter
,
Warwick
and
Talbot
,
Salisbury
and
Gloucester
,
Be
in
their
flowing
cups
freshly
remembered
.
This
story
shall
the
good
man
teach
his
son
,
And
Crispin
Crispian
shall
ne’er
go
by
,
From
this
day
to
the
ending
of
the
world
,
But
we
in
it
shall
be
rememberèd
—
We
few
,
we
happy
few
,
we
band
of
brothers
;
For
he
today
that
sheds
his
blood
with
me
Shall
be
my
brother
;
be
he
ne’er
so
vile
,
This
day
shall
gentle
his
condition
;
And
gentlemen
in
England
now
abed
Shall
think
themselves
accursed
they
were
not
here
,
And
hold
their
manhoods
cheap
whiles
any
speaks
That
fought
with
us
upon
Saint
Crispin’s
day
.
Moy
shall
not
serve
.
I
will
have
forty
moys
,
or
I
will
fetch
thy
rim
out
at
thy
throat
in
drops
of
crimson
blood
.
As
I
suck
blood
,
I
will
some
mercy
show
.
Follow
me
.
Lives
he
,
good
uncle
?
Thrice
within
this
hour
I
saw
him
down
,
thrice
up
again
and
fighting
.
From
helmet
to
the
spur
,
all
blood
he
was
.
In
which
array
,
brave
soldier
,
doth
he
lie
,
Larding
the
plain
,
and
by
his
bloody
side
,
Yoke-fellow
to
his
honor-owing
wounds
,
The
noble
Earl
of
Suffolk
also
lies
.
Suffolk
first
died
,
and
York
,
all
haggled
over
,
Comes
to
him
where
in
gore
he
lay
insteeped
,
And
takes
him
by
the
beard
,
kisses
the
gashes
That
bloodily
did
yawn
upon
his
face
.
He
cries
aloud
Tarry
,
my
cousin
Suffolk
.
My
soul
shall
thine
keep
company
to
heaven
.
Tarry
,
sweet
soul
,
for
mine
;
then
fly
abreast
,
As
in
this
glorious
and
well-foughten
field
We
kept
together
in
our
chivalry
.
Upon
these
words
I
came
and
cheered
him
up
.
He
smiled
me
in
the
face
,
raught
me
his
hand
,
And
with
a
feeble
grip
,
says
Dear
my
lord
,
Commend
my
service
to
my
sovereign
.
So
did
he
turn
,
and
over
Suffolk’s
neck
He
threw
his
wounded
arm
and
kissed
his
lips
,
And
so
,
espoused
to
death
,
with
blood
he
sealed
A
testament
of
noble-ending
love
.
The
pretty
and
sweet
manner
of
it
forced
Those
waters
from
me
which
I
would
have
stopped
,
But
I
had
not
so
much
of
man
in
me
,
And
all
my
mother
came
into
mine
eyes
And
gave
me
up
to
tears
.
I
think
it
is
in
Macedon
where
Alexander
is
porn
.
I
tell
you
,
captain
,
if
you
look
in
the
maps
of
the
’orld
,
I
warrant
you
sall
find
,
in
the
comparisons
between
Macedon
and
Monmouth
,
that
the
situations
,
look
you
,
is
both
alike
.
There
is
a
river
in
Macedon
,
and
there
is
also
,
moreover
,
a
river
at
Monmouth
.
It
is
called
Wye
at
Monmouth
,
but
it
is
out
of
my
prains
what
is
the
name
of
the
other
river
.
But
’tis
all
one
;
’tis
alike
as
my
fingers
is
to
my
fingers
,
and
there
is
salmons
in
both
.
If
you
mark
Alexander’s
life
well
,
Harry
of
Monmouth’s
life
is
come
after
it
indifferent
well
,
for
there
is
figures
in
all
things
.
Alexander
,
God
knows
and
you
know
,
in
his
rages
and
his
furies
and
his
wraths
and
his
cholers
and
his
moods
and
his
displeasures
and
his
indignations
,
and
also
being
a
little
intoxicates
in
his
prains
,
did
,
in
his
ales
and
his
angers
,
look
you
,
kill
his
best
friend
,
Cleitus
.
No
,
great
king
.
I
come
to
thee
for
charitable
license
,
That
we
may
wander
o’er
this
bloody
field
To
book
our
dead
and
then
to
bury
them
,
To
sort
our
nobles
from
our
common
men
,
For
many
of
our
princes
—
woe
the
while
!
—
Lie
drowned
and
soaked
in
mercenary
blood
.
So
do
our
vulgar
drench
their
peasant
limbs
In
blood
of
princes
,
and
the
wounded
steeds
Fret
fetlock
deep
in
gore
,
and
with
wild
rage
Yerk
out
their
armèd
heels
at
their
dead
masters
,
Killing
them
twice
.
O
,
give
us
leave
,
great
king
,
To
view
the
field
in
safety
and
dispose
Of
their
dead
bodies
.
All
the
water
in
Wye
cannot
wash
your
Majesty’s
Welsh
plood
out
of
your
pody
,
I
can
tell
you
that
.
God
pless
it
and
preserve
it
as
long
as
it
pleases
his
Grace
and
his
Majesty
too
.
Though
he
be
as
good
a
gentleman
as
the
devil
is
,
as
Lucifer
and
Beelzebub
himself
,
it
is
necessary
,
look
your
Grace
,
that
he
keep
his
vow
and
his
oath
.
If
he
be
perjured
,
see
you
now
,
his
reputation
is
as
arrant
a
villain
and
a
Jack
Sauce
as
ever
his
black
shoe
trod
upon
God’s
ground
and
His
earth
,
in
my
conscience
,
la
.
’Sblood
,
an
arrant
traitor
as
any
’s
in
the
universal
world
,
or
in
France
,
or
in
England
!
My
Lord
of
Warwick
,
here
is
,
praised
be
God
for
it
,
a
most
contagious
treason
come
to
light
,
look
you
,
as
you
shall
desire
in
a
summer’s
day
.
Here
is
his
Majesty
.
My
liege
,
here
is
a
villain
and
a
traitor
,
that
,
look
your
Grace
,
has
struck
the
glove
which
your
Majesty
is
take
out
of
the
helmet
of
Alençon
.
Give
me
thy
glove
,
soldier
.
Look
,
here
is
the
fellow
of
it
.
’Twas
I
indeed
thou
promised’st
to
strike
,
And
thou
hast
given
me
most
bitter
terms
.
This
note
doth
tell
me
of
ten
thousand
French
That
in
the
field
lie
slain
.
Of
princes
in
this
number
And
nobles
bearing
banners
,
there
lie
dead
One
hundred
twenty-six
.
Added
to
these
,
Of
knights
,
esquires
,
and
gallant
gentlemen
,
Eight
thousand
and
four
hundred
,
of
the
which
Five
hundred
were
but
yesterday
dubbed
knights
.
So
that
in
these
ten
thousand
they
have
lost
,
There
are
but
sixteen
hundred
mercenaries
.
The
rest
are
princes
,
barons
,
lords
,
knights
,
squires
,
And
gentlemen
of
blood
and
quality
.
The
names
of
those
their
nobles
that
lie
dead
:
Charles
Delabreth
,
High
Constable
of
France
;
Jacques
of
Chatillon
,
Admiral
of
France
;
The
Master
of
the
Crossbows
,
Lord
Rambures
;
Great
Master
of
France
,
the
brave
Sir
Guichard
Dauphin
;
John
,
Duke
of
Alençon
;
Anthony
,
Duke
of
Brabant
,
The
brother
to
the
Duke
of
Burgundy
;
And
Edward
,
Duke
of
Bar
.
Of
lusty
earls
:
Grandpré
and
Roussi
,
Faulconbridge
and
Foix
,
Beaumont
and
Marle
,
Vaudemont
and
Lestrale
.
Here
was
a
royal
fellowship
of
death
.
Where
is
the
number
of
our
English
dead
?
Edward
the
Duke
of
York
,
the
Earl
of
Suffolk
,
Sir
Richard
Ketly
,
Davy
Gam
,
esquire
;
None
else
of
name
,
and
of
all
other
men
But
five
and
twenty
.
O
God
,
thy
arm
was
here
,
And
not
to
us
,
but
to
thy
arm
alone
Ascribe
we
all
!
When
,
without
stratagem
,
But
in
plain
shock
and
even
play
of
battle
,
Was
ever
known
so
great
and
little
loss
On
one
part
and
on
th’
other
?
Take
it
,
God
,
For
it
is
none
but
thine
.
Vouchsafe
to
those
that
have
not
read
the
story
That
I
may
prompt
them
;
and
of
such
as
have
,
I
humbly
pray
them
to
admit
th’
excuse
Of
time
,
of
numbers
,
and
due
course
of
things
,
Which
cannot
in
their
huge
and
proper
life
Be
here
presented
.
Now
we
bear
the
King
Toward
Calais
.
Grant
him
there
.
There
seen
,
Heave
him
away
upon
your
wingèd
thoughts
Athwart
the
sea
.
Behold
,
the
English
beach
Pales
in
the
flood
with
men
,
wives
,
and
boys
,
Whose
shouts
and
claps
outvoice
the
deep-mouthed
sea
,
Which
,
like
a
mighty
whiffler
’fore
the
King
Seems
to
prepare
his
way
.
So
let
him
land
,
And
solemnly
see
him
set
on
to
London
.
So
swift
a
pace
hath
thought
that
even
now
You
may
imagine
him
upon
Blackheath
,
Where
that
his
lords
desire
him
to
have
borne
His
bruisèd
helmet
and
his
bended
sword
Before
him
through
the
city
.
He
forbids
it
,
Being
free
from
vainness
and
self-glorious
pride
,
Giving
full
trophy
,
signal
,
and
ostent
Quite
from
himself
,
to
God
.
But
now
behold
,
In
the
quick
forge
and
workinghouse
of
thought
,
How
London
doth
pour
out
her
citizens
.
The
Mayor
and
all
his
brethren
in
best
sort
,
Like
to
the
senators
of
th’
antique
Rome
,
With
the
plebeians
swarming
at
their
heels
,
Go
forth
and
fetch
their
conqu’ring
Caesar
in
—
As
,
by
a
lower
but
by
loving
likelihood
Were
now
the
general
of
our
gracious
empress
,
As
in
good
time
he
may
,
from
Ireland
coming
,
Bringing
rebellion
broachèd
on
his
sword
,
How
many
would
the
peaceful
city
quit
To
welcome
him
!
Much
more
,
and
much
more
cause
,
Did
they
this
Harry
.
Now
in
London
place
him
(
As
yet
the
lamentation
of
the
French
Invites
the
King
of
England’s
stay
at
home
;
The
Emperor’s
coming
in
behalf
of
France
To
order
peace
between
them
)
and
omit
All
the
occurrences
,
whatever
chanced
,
Till
Harry’s
back
return
again
to
France
.
There
must
we
bring
him
,
and
myself
have
played
The
interim
,
by
remembering
you
’tis
past
.
Then
brook
abridgment
,
and
your
eyes
advance
After
your
thoughts
,
straight
back
again
to
France
.
There
is
occasions
and
causes
why
and
wherefore
in
all
things
.
I
will
tell
you
ass
my
friend
,
Captain
Gower
.
The
rascally
,
scald
,
beggarly
,
lousy
,
pragging
knave
Pistol
,
which
you
and
yourself
and
all
the
world
know
to
be
no
petter
than
a
fellow
,
look
you
now
,
of
no
merits
,
he
is
come
to
me
and
prings
me
pread
and
salt
yesterday
,
look
you
,
and
bid
me
eat
my
leek
.
It
was
in
a
place
where
I
could
not
breed
no
contention
with
him
,
but
I
will
be
so
bold
as
to
wear
it
in
my
cap
till
I
see
him
once
again
,
and
then
I
will
tell
him
a
little
piece
of
my
desires
.
I
peseech
you
heartily
,
scurvy
,
lousy
knave
,
at
my
desires
and
my
requests
and
my
petitions
,
to
eat
,
look
you
,
this
leek
.
Because
,
look
you
,
you
do
not
love
it
,
nor
your
affections
and
your
appetites
and
your
disgestions
does
not
agree
with
it
,
I
would
desire
you
to
eat
it
.
I
say
I
will
make
him
eat
some
part
of
my
leek
,
or
I
will
peat
his
pate
four
days
.
—
Bite
,
I
pray
you
.
It
is
good
for
your
green
wound
and
your
ploody
coxcomb
.
So
happy
be
the
issue
,
brother
Ireland
,
Of
this
good
day
and
of
this
gracious
meeting
,
As
we
are
now
glad
to
behold
your
eyes
—
Your
eyes
which
hitherto
have
borne
in
them
Against
the
French
that
met
them
in
their
bent
The
fatal
balls
of
murdering
basilisks
.
The
venom
of
such
looks
,
we
fairly
hope
,
Have
lost
their
quality
,
and
that
this
day
Shall
change
all
griefs
and
quarrels
into
love
.
My
duty
to
you
both
,
on
equal
love
,
Great
kings
of
France
and
England
.
That
I
have
labored
With
all
my
wits
,
my
pains
,
and
strong
endeavors
To
bring
your
most
imperial
Majesties
Unto
this
bar
and
royal
interview
,
Your
Mightiness
on
both
parts
best
can
witness
.
Since
,
then
,
my
office
hath
so
far
prevailed
That
face
to
face
and
royal
eye
to
eye
You
have
congreeted
,
let
it
not
disgrace
me
If
I
demand
before
this
royal
view
What
rub
or
what
impediment
there
is
Why
that
the
naked
,
poor
,
and
mangled
peace
,
Dear
nurse
of
arts
,
plenties
,
and
joyful
births
,
Should
not
in
this
best
garden
of
the
world
,
Our
fertile
France
,
put
up
her
lovely
visage
?
Alas
,
she
hath
from
France
too
long
been
chased
,
And
all
her
husbandry
doth
lie
on
heaps
,
Corrupting
in
its
own
fertility
.
Her
vine
,
the
merry
cheerer
of
the
heart
,
Unprunèd
,
dies
.
Her
hedges
,
even-pleached
,
Like
prisoners
wildly
overgrown
with
hair
,
Put
forth
disordered
twigs
.
Her
fallow
leas
The
darnel
,
hemlock
,
and
rank
fumitory
Doth
root
upon
,
while
that
the
coulter
rusts
That
should
deracinate
such
savagery
.
The
even
mead
,
that
erst
brought
sweetly
forth
The
freckled
cowslip
,
burnet
,
and
green
clover
,
Wanting
the
scythe
,
withal
uncorrected
,
rank
,
Conceives
by
idleness
,
and
nothing
teems
But
hateful
docks
,
rough
thistles
,
kecksies
,
burrs
,
Losing
both
beauty
and
utility
.
And
all
our
vineyards
,
fallows
,
meads
,
and
hedges
,
Defective
in
their
natures
,
grow
to
wildness
.
Even
so
our
houses
and
ourselves
and
children
Have
lost
,
or
do
not
learn
for
want
of
time
,
The
sciences
that
should
become
our
country
,
But
grow
like
savages
,
as
soldiers
will
That
nothing
do
but
meditate
on
blood
,
To
swearing
and
stern
looks
,
diffused
attire
,
And
everything
that
seems
unnatural
.
Which
to
reduce
into
our
former
favor
You
are
assembled
,
and
my
speech
entreats
That
I
may
know
the
let
why
gentle
peace
Should
not
expel
these
inconveniences
And
bless
us
with
her
former
qualities
.
Marry
,
if
you
would
put
me
to
verses
or
to
dance
for
your
sake
,
Kate
,
why
you
undid
me
.
For
the
one
,
I
have
neither
words
nor
measure
;
and
for
the
other
,
I
have
no
strength
in
measure
,
yet
a
reasonable
measure
in
strength
.
If
I
could
win
a
lady
at
leapfrog
or
by
vaulting
into
my
saddle
with
my
armor
on
my
back
,
under
the
correction
of
bragging
be
it
spoken
,
I
should
quickly
leap
into
a
wife
.
Or
if
I
might
buffet
for
my
love
,
or
bound
my
horse
for
her
favors
,
I
could
lay
on
like
a
butcher
and
sit
like
a
jackanapes
,
never
off
.
But
,
before
God
,
Kate
,
I
cannot
look
greenly
nor
gasp
out
my
eloquence
,
nor
I
have
no
cunning
in
protestation
,
only
downright
oaths
,
which
I
never
use
till
urged
,
nor
never
break
for
urging
.
If
thou
canst
love
a
fellow
of
this
temper
,
Kate
,
whose
face
is
not
worth
sun-burning
,
that
never
looks
in
his
glass
for
love
of
anything
he
sees
there
,
let
thine
eye
be
thy
cook
.
I
speak
to
thee
plain
soldier
.
If
thou
canst
love
me
for
this
,
take
me
.
If
not
,
to
say
to
thee
that
I
shall
die
is
true
,
but
for
thy
love
,
by
the
Lord
,
no
.
Yet
I
love
thee
too
.
And
while
thou
liv’st
,
dear
Kate
,
take
a
fellow
of
plain
and
uncoined
constancy
,
for
he
perforce
must
do
thee
right
because
he
hath
not
the
gift
to
woo
in
other
places
.
For
these
fellows
of
infinite
tongue
,
that
can
rhyme
themselves
into
ladies’
favors
,
they
do
always
reason
themselves
out
again
.
What
?
A
speaker
is
but
a
prater
,
a
rhyme
is
but
a
ballad
,
a
good
leg
will
fall
,
a
straight
back
will
stoop
,
a
black
beard
will
turn
white
,
a
curled
pate
will
grow
bald
,
a
fair
face
will
wither
,
a
full
eye
will
wax
hollow
,
but
a
good
heart
,
Kate
,
is
the
sun
and
the
moon
,
or
rather
the
sun
and
not
the
moon
,
for
it
shines
bright
and
never
changes
but
keeps
his
course
truly
.
If
thou
would
have
such
a
one
,
take
me
.
And
take
me
,
take
a
soldier
.
Take
a
soldier
,
take
a
king
.
And
what
say’st
thou
then
to
my
love
?
Speak
,
my
fair
,
and
fairly
,
I
pray
thee
.
Now
fie
upon
my
false
French
.
By
mine
honor
,
in
true
English
,
I
love
thee
,
Kate
.
By
which
honor
I
dare
not
swear
thou
lovest
me
,
yet
my
blood
begins
to
flatter
me
that
thou
dost
,
notwithstanding
the
poor
and
untempering
effect
of
my
visage
.
Now
beshrew
my
father’s
ambition
!
He
was
thinking
of
civil
wars
when
he
got
me
;
therefore
was
I
created
with
a
stubborn
outside
,
with
an
aspect
of
iron
,
that
when
I
come
to
woo
ladies
,
I
fright
them
.
But
,
in
faith
,
Kate
,
the
elder
I
wax
,
the
better
I
shall
appear
.
My
comfort
is
that
old
age
,
that
ill
layer-up
of
beauty
,
can
do
no
more
spoil
upon
my
face
.
Thou
hast
me
,
if
thou
hast
me
,
at
the
worst
,
and
thou
shalt
wear
me
,
if
thou
wear
me
,
better
and
better
.
And
therefore
tell
me
,
most
fair
Katherine
,
will
you
have
me
?
Put
off
your
maiden
blushes
,
avouch
the
thoughts
of
your
heart
with
the
looks
of
an
empress
,
take
me
by
the
hand
,
and
say
Harry
of
England
,
I
am
thine
,
which
word
thou
shalt
no
sooner
bless
mine
ear
withal
,
but
I
will
tell
thee
aloud
England
is
thine
,
Ireland
is
thine
,
France
is
thine
,
and
Henry
Plantagenet
is
thine
,
who
,
though
I
speak
it
before
his
face
,
if
he
be
not
fellow
with
the
best
king
,
thou
shalt
find
the
best
king
of
good
fellows
.
Come
,
your
answer
in
broken
music
,
for
thy
voice
is
music
,
and
thy
English
broken
.
Therefore
,
queen
of
all
,
Katherine
,
break
thy
mind
to
me
in
broken
English
.
Wilt
thou
have
me
?
I
will
wink
on
her
to
consent
,
my
lord
,
if
you
will
teach
her
to
know
my
meaning
,
for
maids
well
summered
and
warm
kept
are
like
flies
at
Bartholomew-tide
:
blind
,
though
they
have
their
eyes
;
and
then
they
will
endure
handling
,
which
before
would
not
abide
looking
on
.
Take
her
,
fair
son
,
and
from
her
blood
raise
up
Issue
to
me
,
that
the
contending
kingdoms
Of
France
and
England
,
whose
very
shores
look
pale
With
envy
of
each
other’s
happiness
,
May
cease
their
hatred
,
and
this
dear
conjunction
Plant
neighborhood
and
Christian-like
accord
In
their
sweet
bosoms
,
that
never
war
advance
His
bleeding
sword
’twixt
England
and
fair
France
.
Well
,
we
shall
then
know
more
,
and
Buckingham
Shall
lessen
this
big
look
.
This
butcher’s
cur
is
venomed-mouthed
,
and
I
Have
not
the
power
to
muzzle
him
;
therefore
best
Not
wake
him
in
his
slumber
.
A
beggar’s
book
Outworths
a
noble’s
blood
.
I
read
in
’s
looks
Matter
against
me
,
and
his
eye
reviled
Me
as
his
abject
object
.
At
this
instant
He
bores
me
with
some
trick
.
He’s
gone
to
th’
King
.
I’ll
follow
and
outstare
him
.
I
am
sorry
To
see
you
ta’en
from
liberty
,
to
look
on
The
business
present
.
’Tis
his
Highness’
pleasure
You
shall
to
th’
Tower
.
Things
done
well
,
And
with
a
care
,
exempt
themselves
from
fear
;
Things
done
without
example
,
in
their
issue
Are
to
be
feared
.
Have
you
a
precedent
Of
this
commission
?
I
believe
,
not
any
.
We
must
not
rend
our
subjects
from
our
laws
And
stick
them
in
our
will
.
Sixth
part
of
each
?
A
trembling
contribution
!
Why
,
we
take
From
every
tree
lop
,
bark
,
and
part
o’
th’
timber
,
And
though
we
leave
it
with
a
root
,
thus
hacked
,
The
air
will
drink
the
sap
.
To
every
county
Where
this
is
questioned
send
our
letters
with
Free
pardon
to
each
man
that
has
denied
The
force
of
this
commission
.
Pray
look
to
’t
;
I
put
it
to
your
care
.
Look
out
there
,
some
of
you
.
All
good
people
,
You
that
thus
far
have
come
to
pity
me
,
Hear
what
I
say
,
and
then
go
home
and
lose
me
.
I
have
this
day
received
a
traitor’s
judgment
,
And
by
that
name
must
die
.
Yet
heaven
bear
witness
,
And
if
I
have
a
conscience
,
let
it
sink
me
Even
as
the
ax
falls
,
if
I
be
not
faithful
!
The
law
I
bear
no
malice
for
my
death
;
’T
has
done
,
upon
the
premises
,
but
justice
.
But
those
that
sought
it
I
could
wish
more
Christian
.
Be
what
they
will
,
I
heartily
forgive
’em
.
Yet
let
’em
look
they
glory
not
in
mischief
,
Nor
build
their
evils
on
the
graves
of
great
men
,
For
then
my
guiltless
blood
must
cry
against
’em
.
For
further
life
in
this
world
I
ne’er
hope
,
Nor
will
I
sue
,
although
the
King
have
mercies
More
than
I
dare
make
faults
.
You
few
that
loved
me
And
dare
be
bold
to
weep
for
Buckingham
,
His
noble
friends
and
fellows
,
whom
to
leave
Is
only
bitter
to
him
,
only
dying
,
Go
with
me
like
good
angels
to
my
end
,
And
as
the
long
divorce
of
steel
falls
on
me
,
Make
of
your
prayers
one
sweet
sacrifice
,
And
lift
my
soul
to
heaven
.
—
Lead
on
,
a’
God’s
name
.
Nay
,
Sir
Nicholas
,
Let
it
alone
.
My
state
now
will
but
mock
me
.
When
I
came
hither
,
I
was
Lord
High
Constable
And
Duke
of
Buckingham
;
now
,
poor
Edward
Bohun
.
Yet
I
am
richer
than
my
base
accusers
,
That
never
knew
what
truth
meant
.
I
now
seal
it
,
And
with
that
blood
will
make
’em
one
day
groan
for
’t
.
My
noble
father
,
Henry
of
Buckingham
,
Who
first
raised
head
against
usurping
Richard
,
Flying
for
succor
to
his
servant
Banister
,
Being
distressed
,
was
by
that
wretch
betrayed
,
And
,
without
trial
,
fell
.
God’s
peace
be
with
him
.
Henry
the
Seventh
,
succeeding
,
truly
pitying
My
father’s
loss
,
like
a
most
royal
prince
Restored
me
to
my
honors
and
out
of
ruins
Made
my
name
once
more
noble
.
Now
his
son
,
Henry
the
Eighth
,
life
,
honor
,
name
,
and
all
That
made
me
happy
at
one
stroke
has
taken
Forever
from
the
world
.
I
had
my
trial
,
And
must
needs
say
a
noble
one
,
which
makes
me
A
little
happier
than
my
wretched
father
.
Yet
thus
far
we
are
one
in
fortunes
:
both
Fell
by
our
servants
,
by
those
men
we
loved
most
—
A
most
unnatural
and
faithless
service
.
Heaven
has
an
end
in
all
;
yet
,
you
that
hear
me
,
This
from
a
dying
man
receive
as
certain
:
Where
you
are
liberal
of
your
loves
and
counsels
Be
sure
you
be
not
loose
;
for
those
you
make
friends
And
give
your
hearts
to
,
when
they
once
perceive
The
least
rub
in
your
fortunes
,
fall
away
Like
water
from
you
,
never
found
again
But
where
they
mean
to
sink
you
.
All
good
people
,
Pray
for
me
.
I
must
now
forsake
you
.
The
last
hour
Of
my
long
weary
life
is
come
upon
me
.
Farewell
.
And
when
you
would
say
something
that
is
sad
,
Speak
how
I
fell
.
I
have
done
;
and
God
forgive
me
.
Heaven
keep
me
from
such
counsel
!
’Tis
most
true
:
These
news
are
everywhere
,
every
tongue
speaks
’em
,
And
every
true
heart
weeps
for
’t
.
All
that
dare
Look
into
these
affairs
see
this
main
end
,
The
French
king’s
sister
.
Heaven
will
one
day
open
The
King’s
eyes
,
that
so
long
have
slept
upon
This
bold
bad
man
.
How
sad
he
looks
!
Sure
he
is
much
afflicted
.
Your
Grace
has
given
a
precedent
of
wisdom
Above
all
princes
in
committing
freely
Your
scruple
to
the
voice
of
Christendom
.
Who
can
be
angry
now
?
What
envy
reach
you
?
The
Spaniard
,
tied
by
blood
and
favor
to
her
,
Must
now
confess
,
if
they
have
any
goodness
,
The
trial
just
and
noble
;
all
the
clerks
—
I
mean
the
learnèd
ones
in
Christian
kingdoms
—
Have
their
free
voices
;
Rome
,
the
nurse
of
judgment
,
Invited
by
your
noble
self
,
hath
sent
One
general
tongue
unto
us
,
this
good
man
,
This
just
and
learnèd
priest
,
Cardinal
Campeius
,
Whom
once
more
I
present
unto
your
Highness
.
Good
lady
,
Make
yourself
mirth
with
your
particular
fancy
,
And
leave
me
out
on
’t
.
Would
I
had
no
being
If
this
salute
my
blood
a
jot
.
It
faints
me
To
think
what
follows
.
The
Queen
is
comfortless
and
we
forgetful
In
our
long
absence
.
Pray
do
not
deliver
What
here
you’ve
heard
to
her
.
Most
gracious
sir
,
In
humblest
manner
I
require
your
Highness
That
it
shall
please
you
to
declare
in
hearing
Of
all
these
ears
—
for
where
I
am
robbed
and
bound
,
There
must
I
be
unloosed
,
although
not
there
At
once
and
fully
satisfied
—
whether
ever
I
Did
broach
this
business
to
your
Highness
,
or
Laid
any
scruple
in
your
way
which
might
Induce
you
to
the
question
on
’t
,
or
ever
Have
to
you
,
but
with
thanks
to
God
for
such
A
royal
lady
,
spake
one
the
least
word
that
might
Be
to
the
prejudice
of
her
present
state
,
Or
touch
of
her
good
person
?
To
betray
me
.
—
My
lords
,
I
thank
you
both
for
your
good
wills
.
You
speak
like
honest
men
;
pray
God
you
prove
so
.
But
how
to
make
you
suddenly
an
answer
In
such
a
point
of
weight
,
so
near
mine
honor
—
More
near
my
life
,
I
fear
—
with
my
weak
wit
,
And
to
such
men
of
gravity
and
learning
,
In
truth
I
know
not
.
I
was
set
at
work
Among
my
maids
,
full
little
,
God
knows
,
looking
Either
for
such
men
or
such
business
.
For
her
sake
that
I
have
been
—
for
I
feel
The
last
fit
of
my
greatness
—
good
your
Graces
,
Let
me
have
time
and
counsel
for
my
cause
.
Alas
,
I
am
a
woman
friendless
,
hopeless
.
Looked
he
o’
th’
inside
of
the
paper
?
My
lord
,
we
have
Stood
here
observing
him
.
Some
strange
commotion
Is
in
his
brain
.
He
bites
his
lip
,
and
starts
,
Stops
on
a
sudden
,
looks
upon
the
ground
,
Then
lays
his
finger
on
his
temple
,
straight
Springs
out
into
fast
gait
,
then
stops
again
,
Strikes
his
breast
hard
,
and
anon
he
casts
His
eye
against
the
moon
.
In
most
strange
postures
We
have
seen
him
set
himself
.
I
do
profess
That
for
your
Highness’
good
I
ever
labored
More
than
mine
own
,
that
am
,
have
,
and
will
be
—
Though
all
the
world
should
crack
their
duty
to
you
And
throw
it
from
their
soul
,
though
perils
did
Abound
as
thick
as
thought
could
make
’em
,
and
Appear
in
forms
more
horrid
—
yet
my
duty
,
As
doth
a
rock
against
the
chiding
flood
,
Should
the
approach
of
this
wild
river
break
,
And
stand
unshaken
yours
.
What
should
this
mean
?
What
sudden
anger’s
this
?
How
have
I
reaped
it
?
He
parted
frowning
from
me
,
as
if
ruin
Leaped
from
his
eyes
.
So
looks
the
chafèd
lion
Upon
the
daring
huntsman
that
has
galled
him
,
Then
makes
him
nothing
.
I
must
read
this
paper
—
I
fear
,
the
story
of
his
anger
.
’Tis
so
.
This
paper
has
undone
me
.
’Tis
th’
accompt
Of
all
that
world
of
wealth
I
have
drawn
together
For
mine
own
ends
—
indeed
,
to
gain
the
popedom
And
fee
my
friends
in
Rome
.
O
negligence
,
Fit
for
a
fool
to
fall
by
!
What
cross
devil
Made
me
put
this
main
secret
in
the
packet
I
sent
the
King
?
Is
there
no
way
to
cure
this
?
No
new
device
to
beat
this
from
his
brains
?
I
know
’twill
stir
him
strongly
;
yet
I
know
A
way
,
if
it
take
right
,
in
spite
of
fortune
Will
bring
me
off
again
.
What’s
this
?
To
th’
Pope
?
The
letter
,
as
I
live
,
with
all
the
business
I
writ
to
’s
Holiness
.
Nay
then
,
farewell
!
I
have
touched
the
highest
point
of
all
my
greatness
,
And
from
that
full
meridian
of
my
glory
I
haste
now
to
my
setting
.
I
shall
fall
Like
a
bright
exhalation
in
the
evening
And
no
man
see
me
more
.
By
my
soul
,
Your
long
coat
,
priest
,
protects
you
;
thou
shouldst
feel
My
sword
i’
th’
life
blood
of
thee
else
.
—
My
lords
,
Can
you
endure
to
hear
this
arrogance
?
And
from
this
fellow
?
If
we
live
thus
tamely
,
To
be
thus
jaded
by
a
piece
of
scarlet
,
Farewell
,
nobility
.
Let
his
Grace
go
forward
And
dare
us
with
his
cap
,
like
larks
.
Heaven
bless
thee
!
Thou
hast
the
sweetest
face
I
ever
looked
on
.
—
Sir
,
as
I
have
a
soul
,
she
is
an
angel
.
Our
king
has
all
the
Indies
in
his
arms
,
And
more
,
and
richer
,
when
he
strains
that
lady
.
I
cannot
blame
his
conscience
.
As
well
as
I
am
able
.
The
rich
stream
Of
lords
and
ladies
,
having
brought
the
Queen
To
a
prepared
place
in
the
choir
,
fell
off
A
distance
from
her
,
while
her
Grace
sat
down
To
rest
awhile
,
some
half
an
hour
or
so
,
In
a
rich
chair
of
state
,
opposing
freely
The
beauty
of
her
person
to
the
people
.
Believe
me
,
sir
,
she
is
the
goodliest
woman
That
ever
lay
by
man
,
which
when
the
people
Had
the
full
view
of
,
such
a
noise
arose
As
the
shrouds
make
at
sea
in
a
stiff
tempest
—
As
loud
and
to
as
many
tunes
.
Hats
,
cloaks
,
Doublets
,
I
think
,
flew
up
,
and
had
their
faces
Been
loose
,
this
day
they
had
been
lost
.
Such
joy
I
never
saw
before
.
Great-bellied
women
That
had
not
half
a
week
to
go
,
like
rams
In
the
old
time
of
war
,
would
shake
the
press
And
make
’em
reel
before
’em
.
No
man
living
Could
say
This
is
my
wife
there
,
all
were
woven
So
strangely
in
one
piece
.
Do
you
note
How
much
her
Grace
is
altered
on
the
sudden
?
How
long
her
face
is
drawn
?
How
pale
she
looks
,
And
of
an
earthy
cold
?
Mark
her
eyes
.
Stand
up
,
good
Canterbury
!
Thy
truth
and
thy
integrity
is
rooted
In
us
,
thy
friend
.
Give
me
thy
hand
.
Stand
up
.
Prithee
,
let’s
walk
.
Now
by
my
halidom
,
What
manner
of
man
are
you
?
My
lord
,
I
looked
You
would
have
given
me
your
petition
that
I
should
have
ta’en
some
pains
to
bring
together
Yourself
and
your
accusers
and
to
have
heard
you
Without
endurance
further
.
Be
of
good
cheer
.
They
shall
no
more
prevail
than
we
give
way
to
.
Keep
comfort
to
you
,
and
this
morning
see
You
do
appear
before
them
.
If
they
shall
chance
,
In
charging
you
with
matters
,
to
commit
you
,
The
best
persuasions
to
the
contrary
Fail
not
to
use
,
and
with
what
vehemency
Th’
occasion
shall
instruct
you
.
If
entreaties
Will
render
you
no
remedy
,
this
ring
Deliver
them
,
and
your
appeal
to
us
There
make
before
them
.
Look
,
the
good
man
weeps
!
He’s
honest
,
on
mine
honor
!
God’s
blest
mother
,
I
swear
he
is
truehearted
,
and
a
soul
None
better
in
my
kingdom
.
—
Get
you
gone
,
And
do
as
I
have
bid
you
.
He
has
strangled
His
language
in
his
tears
.
Now
by
thy
looks
I
guess
thy
message
.
Is
the
Queen
delivered
?
Say
Ay
,
and
of
a
boy
.
Stay
,
good
my
lords
,
I
have
a
little
yet
to
say
.
Look
there
,
my
lords
.
By
virtue
of
that
ring
,
I
take
my
cause
Out
of
the
grips
of
cruel
men
and
give
it
To
a
most
noble
judge
,
the
King
my
master
.
You
were
ever
good
at
sudden
commendations
,
Bishop
of
Winchester
.
But
know
I
come
not
To
hear
such
flattery
now
,
and
in
my
presence
They
are
too
thin
and
base
to
hide
offenses
.
To
me
you
cannot
reach
.
You
play
the
spaniel
,
And
think
with
wagging
of
your
tongue
to
win
me
;
But
whatsoe’er
thou
tak’st
me
for
,
I’m
sure
Thou
hast
a
cruel
nature
and
a
bloody
.
—
Good
man
,
sit
down
.
Now
let
me
see
the
proudest
He
,
that
dares
most
,
but
wag
his
finger
at
thee
.
By
all
that’s
holy
,
he
had
better
starve
Than
but
once
think
this
place
becomes
thee
not
.
Belong
to
th’
gallows
and
be
hanged
,
you
rogue
!
Is
this
a
place
to
roar
in
?
—
Fetch
me
a
dozen
crab-tree
staves
,
and
strong
ones
.
These
are
but
switches
to
’em
.
—
I’ll
scratch
your
heads
!
You
must
be
seeing
christenings
?
Do
you
look
for
ale
and
cakes
here
,
you
rude
rascals
?
The
spoons
will
be
the
bigger
,
sir
.
There
is
a
fellow
somewhat
near
the
door
—
he
should
be
a
brazier
by
his
face
,
for
,
o’
my
conscience
,
twenty
of
the
dog
days
now
reign
in
’s
nose
.
All
that
stand
about
him
are
under
the
line
;
they
need
no
other
penance
.
That
fire-drake
did
I
hit
three
times
on
the
head
,
and
three
times
was
his
nose
discharged
against
me
.
He
stands
there
like
a
mortar-piece
,
to
blow
us
.
There
was
a
haberdasher’s
wife
of
small
wit
near
him
that
railed
upon
me
till
her
pinked
porringer
fell
off
her
head
for
kindling
such
a
combustion
in
the
state
.
I
missed
the
meteor
once
and
hit
that
woman
,
who
cried
out
Clubs
!
when
I
might
see
from
far
some
forty
truncheoners
draw
to
her
succor
,
which
were
the
hope
o’
th’
Strand
,
where
she
was
quartered
.
They
fell
on
;
I
made
good
my
place
.
At
length
they
came
to
th’
broomstaff
to
me
;
I
defied
’em
still
,
when
suddenly
a
file
of
boys
behind
’em
,
loose
shot
,
delivered
such
a
shower
of
pibbles
that
I
was
fain
to
draw
mine
honor
in
and
let
’em
win
the
work
.
The
devil
was
amongst
’em
,
I
think
,
surely
.
Let
me
speak
,
sir
,
For
heaven
now
bids
me
;
and
the
words
I
utter
Let
none
think
flattery
,
for
they’ll
find
’em
truth
.
This
royal
infant
—
heaven
still
move
about
her
!
—
Though
in
her
cradle
,
yet
now
promises
Upon
this
land
a
thousand
thousand
blessings
,
Which
time
shall
bring
to
ripeness
.
She
shall
be
—
But
few
now
living
can
behold
that
goodness
—
A
pattern
to
all
princes
living
with
her
And
all
that
shall
succeed
.
Saba
was
never
More
covetous
of
wisdom
and
fair
virtue
Than
this
pure
soul
shall
be
.
All
princely
graces
That
mold
up
such
a
mighty
piece
as
this
is
,
With
all
the
virtues
that
attend
the
good
,
Shall
still
be
doubled
on
her
.
Truth
shall
nurse
her
;
Holy
and
heavenly
thoughts
still
counsel
her
.
She
shall
be
loved
and
feared
.
Her
own
shall
bless
her
;
Her
foes
shake
like
a
field
of
beaten
corn
And
hang
their
heads
with
sorrow
.
Good
grows
with
her
.
In
her
days
every
man
shall
eat
in
safety
Under
his
own
vine
what
he
plants
and
sing
The
merry
songs
of
peace
to
all
his
neighbors
.
God
shall
be
truly
known
,
and
those
about
her
From
her
shall
read
the
perfect
ways
of
honor
And
by
those
claim
their
greatness
,
not
by
blood
.
Nor
shall
this
peace
sleep
with
her
;
but
,
as
when
The
bird
of
wonder
dies
,
the
maiden
phoenix
,
Her
ashes
new
create
another
heir
As
great
in
admiration
as
herself
,
So
shall
she
leave
her
blessedness
to
one
,
When
heaven
shall
call
her
from
this
cloud
of
darkness
,
Who
from
the
sacred
ashes
of
her
honor
Shall
starlike
rise
as
great
in
fame
as
she
was
And
so
stand
fixed
.
Peace
,
plenty
,
love
,
truth
,
terror
,
That
were
the
servants
to
this
chosen
infant
,
Shall
then
be
his
,
and
like
a
vine
grow
to
him
.
Wherever
the
bright
sun
of
heaven
shall
shine
,
His
honor
and
the
greatness
of
his
name
Shall
be
,
and
make
new
nations
.
He
shall
flourish
,
And
like
a
mountain
cedar
reach
his
branches
To
all
the
plains
about
him
.
Our
children’s
children
Shall
see
this
and
bless
heaven
.
We
mourn
in
black
;
why
mourn
we
not
in
blood
?
Henry
is
dead
and
never
shall
revive
.
Upon
a
wooden
coffin
we
attend
,
And
Death’s
dishonorable
victory
We
with
our
stately
presence
glorify
,
Like
captives
bound
to
a
triumphant
car
.
What
?
Shall
we
curse
the
planets
of
mishap
That
plotted
thus
our
glory’s
overthrow
?
Or
shall
we
think
the
subtle-witted
French
Conjurers
and
sorcerers
,
that
,
afraid
of
him
,
By
magic
verses
have
contrived
his
end
?
Gloucester
,
whate’er
we
like
,
thou
art
Protector
And
lookest
to
command
the
Prince
and
realm
.
Thy
wife
is
proud
;
she
holdeth
thee
in
awe
More
than
God
or
religious
churchmen
may
.
O
no
,
wherein
Lord
Talbot
was
o’erthrown
.
The
circumstance
I’ll
tell
you
more
at
large
.
The
tenth
of
August
last
,
this
dreadful
lord
,
Retiring
from
the
siege
of
Orleance
,
Having
full
scarce
six
thousand
in
his
troop
,
By
three
and
twenty
thousand
of
the
French
Was
round
encompassèd
and
set
upon
.
No
leisure
had
he
to
enrank
his
men
.
He
wanted
pikes
to
set
before
his
archers
,
Instead
whereof
,
sharp
stakes
plucked
out
of
hedges
They
pitchèd
in
the
ground
confusedly
To
keep
the
horsemen
off
from
breaking
in
.
More
than
three
hours
the
fight
continuèd
,
Where
valiant
Talbot
,
above
human
thought
,
Enacted
wonders
with
his
sword
and
lance
.
Hundreds
he
sent
to
hell
,
and
none
durst
stand
him
;
Here
,
there
,
and
everywhere
,
enraged
,
he
slew
.
The
French
exclaimed
the
devil
was
in
arms
;
All
the
whole
army
stood
agazed
on
him
.
His
soldiers
,
spying
his
undaunted
spirit
,
À
Talbot
!
À
Talbot
!
cried
out
amain
And
rushed
into
the
bowels
of
the
battle
.
Here
had
the
conquest
fully
been
sealed
up
If
Sir
John
Fastolf
had
not
played
the
coward
.
He
,
being
in
the
vaward
,
placed
behind
With
purpose
to
relieve
and
follow
them
,
Cowardly
fled
,
not
having
struck
one
stroke
.
Hence
grew
the
general
wrack
and
massacre
.
Enclosèd
were
they
with
their
enemies
.
A
base
Walloon
,
to
win
the
Dauphin’s
grace
,
Thrust
Talbot
with
a
spear
into
the
back
,
Whom
all
France
,
with
their
chief
assembled
strength
,
Durst
not
presume
to
look
once
in
the
face
.
His
ransom
there
is
none
but
I
shall
pay
.
I’ll
hale
the
Dauphin
headlong
from
his
throne
;
His
crown
shall
be
the
ransom
of
my
friend
.
Four
of
their
lords
I’ll
change
for
one
of
ours
.
Farewell
,
my
masters
;
to
my
task
will
I
.
Bonfires
in
France
forthwith
I
am
to
make
,
To
keep
our
great
Saint
George’s
feast
withal
.
Ten
thousand
soldiers
with
me
I
will
take
,
Whose
bloody
deeds
shall
make
all
Europe
quake
.
They
want
their
porridge
and
their
fat
bull
beeves
.
Either
they
must
be
dieted
like
mules
And
have
their
provender
tied
to
their
mouths
,
Or
piteous
they
will
look
,
like
drownèd
mice
.
Methinks
your
looks
are
sad
,
your
cheer
appalled
.
Hath
the
late
overthrow
wrought
this
offence
?
Be
not
dismayed
,
for
succor
is
at
hand
.
A
holy
maid
hither
with
me
I
bring
,
Which
,
by
a
vision
sent
to
her
from
heaven
,
Ordainèd
is
to
raise
this
tedious
siege
And
drive
the
English
forth
the
bounds
of
France
.
The
spirit
of
deep
prophecy
she
hath
,
Exceeding
the
nine
Sibyls
of
old
Rome
.
What’s
past
and
what’s
to
come
she
can
descry
.
Speak
,
shall
I
call
her
in
?
Believe
my
words
,
For
they
are
certain
and
unfallible
.
Go
call
her
in
.
But
first
,
to
try
her
skill
,
Reignier
,
stand
thou
as
Dauphin
in
my
place
;
Question
her
proudly
;
let
thy
looks
be
stern
.
By
this
means
shall
we
sound
what
skill
she
hath
.
Meantime
look
gracious
on
thy
prostrate
thrall
.
Gloucester
,
we’ll
meet
to
thy
cost
,
be
sure
.
Thy
heartblood
I
will
have
for
this
day’s
work
.
I
grieve
to
hear
what
torments
you
endured
,
But
we
will
be
revenged
sufficiently
.
Now
it
is
supper
time
in
Orleance
.
Here
,
through
this
grate
,
I
count
each
one
And
view
the
Frenchmen
how
they
fortify
.
Let
us
look
in
;
the
sight
will
much
delight
thee
.
Sir
Thomas
Gargrave
and
Sir
William
Glansdale
,
Let
me
have
your
express
opinions
Where
is
best
place
to
make
our
batt’ry
next
?
What
chance
is
this
that
suddenly
hath
crossed
us
?
—
Speak
,
Salisbury
—
at
least
if
thou
canst
,
speak
!
How
far’st
thou
,
mirror
of
all
martial
men
?
One
of
thy
eyes
and
thy
cheek’s
side
struck
off
!
—
Accursèd
tower
,
accursèd
fatal
hand
That
hath
contrived
this
woeful
tragedy
!
In
thirteen
battles
Salisbury
o’ercame
;
Henry
the
Fifth
he
first
trained
to
the
wars
.
Whilst
any
trump
did
sound
or
drum
struck
up
,
His
sword
did
ne’er
leave
striking
in
the
field
.
—
Yet
liv’st
thou
,
Salisbury
?
Though
thy
speech
doth
fail
,
One
eye
thou
hast
to
look
to
heaven
for
grace
.
The
sun
with
one
eye
vieweth
all
the
world
.
Heaven
,
be
thou
gracious
to
none
alive
If
Salisbury
wants
mercy
at
thy
hands
!
—
Sir
Thomas
Gargrave
,
hast
thou
any
life
?
Speak
unto
Talbot
.
Nay
,
look
up
to
him
.
—
Bear
hence
his
body
;
I
will
help
to
bury
it
.
Salisbury
,
cheer
thy
spirit
with
this
comfort
,
Thou
shalt
not
die
whiles
—
He
beckons
with
his
hand
and
smiles
on
me
As
who
should
say
When
I
am
dead
and
gone
,
Remember
to
avenge
me
on
the
French
.
Plantagenet
,
I
will
;
and
,
like
thee
,
Nero
,
Play
on
the
lute
,
beholding
the
towns
burn
.
Wretched
shall
France
be
only
in
my
name
.
What
stir
is
this
?
What
tumult’s
in
the
heavens
?
Whence
cometh
this
alarum
and
the
noise
?
Where
is
my
strength
,
my
valor
,
and
my
force
?
Our
English
troops
retire
;
I
cannot
stay
them
.
A
woman
clad
in
armor
chaseth
them
.
Here
,
here
she
comes
!
—
I’ll
have
a
bout
with
thee
.
Devil
or
devil’s
dam
,
I’ll
conjure
thee
.
Blood
will
I
draw
on
thee
—
thou
art
a
witch
—
And
straightway
give
thy
soul
to
him
thou
serv’st
.
Divinest
creature
,
Astraea’s
daughter
,
How
shall
I
honor
thee
for
this
success
?
Thy
promises
are
like
Adonis’
garden
That
one
day
bloomed
and
fruitful
were
the
next
.
France
,
triumph
in
thy
glorious
prophetess
.
Recovered
is
the
town
of
Orleance
.
More
blessèd
hap
did
ne’er
befall
our
state
.
Lord
Regent
,
and
redoubted
Burgundy
,
By
whose
approach
the
regions
of
Artois
,
Walloon
,
and
Picardy
are
friends
to
us
,
This
happy
night
the
Frenchmen
are
secure
,
Having
all
day
caroused
and
banqueted
.
Embrace
we
then
this
opportunity
,
As
fitting
best
to
quittance
their
deceit
Contrived
by
art
and
baleful
sorcery
.
Duke
of
Alanson
,
this
was
your
default
,
That
,
being
captain
of
the
watch
tonight
,
Did
look
no
better
to
that
weighty
charge
.
Bring
forth
the
body
of
old
Salisbury
,
And
here
advance
it
in
the
marketplace
,
The
middle
center
of
this
cursèd
town
.
Now
have
I
paid
my
vow
unto
his
soul
:
For
every
drop
of
blood
was
drawn
from
him
There
hath
at
least
five
Frenchmen
died
tonight
.
And
,
that
hereafter
ages
may
behold
What
ruin
happened
in
revenge
of
him
,
Within
their
chiefest
temple
I’ll
erect
A
tomb
wherein
his
corpse
shall
be
interred
,
Upon
the
which
,
that
everyone
may
read
,
Shall
be
engraved
the
sack
of
Orleance
,
The
treacherous
manner
of
his
mournful
death
,
And
what
a
terror
he
had
been
to
France
.
But
,
lords
,
in
all
our
bloody
massacre
,
I
muse
we
met
not
with
the
Dauphin’s
grace
,
His
new-come
champion
,
virtuous
Joan
of
Arc
,
Nor
any
of
his
false
confederates
.
To
me
,
bloodthirsty
lord
.
And
for
that
cause
I
trained
thee
to
my
house
.
Long
time
thy
shadow
hath
been
thrall
to
me
,
For
in
my
gallery
thy
picture
hangs
.
But
now
the
substance
shall
endure
the
like
,
And
I
will
chain
these
legs
and
arms
of
thine
,
That
hast
by
tyranny
these
many
years
Wasted
our
country
,
slain
our
citizens
,
And
sent
our
sons
and
husbands
captivate
.
Here
in
my
scabbard
,
meditating
that
Shall
dye
your
white
rose
in
a
bloody
red
.
Meantime
your
cheeks
do
counterfeit
our
roses
,
For
pale
they
look
with
fear
,
as
witnessing
The
truth
on
our
side
.
By
Him
that
made
me
,
I’ll
maintain
my
words
On
any
plot
of
ground
in
Christendom
.
Was
not
thy
father
Richard
,
Earl
of
Cambridge
,
For
treason
executed
in
our
late
king’s
days
?
And
,
by
his
treason
,
stand’st
not
thou
attainted
,
Corrupted
,
and
exempt
from
ancient
gentry
?
His
trespass
yet
lives
guilty
in
thy
blood
,
And
,
till
thou
be
restored
,
thou
art
a
yeoman
.
My
father
was
attachèd
,
not
attainted
,
Condemned
to
die
for
treason
,
but
no
traitor
;
And
that
I’ll
prove
on
better
men
than
Somerset
,
Were
growing
time
once
ripened
to
my
will
.
For
your
partaker
Pole
and
you
yourself
,
I’ll
note
you
in
my
book
of
memory
To
scourge
you
for
this
apprehension
.
Look
to
it
well
,
and
say
you
are
well
warned
.
And
,
by
my
soul
,
this
pale
and
angry
rose
,
As
cognizance
of
my
blood-drinking
hate
,
Will
I
forever
,
and
my
faction
,
wear
Until
it
wither
with
me
to
my
grave
Or
flourish
to
the
height
of
my
degree
.
Thanks
,
gentle
sir
.
Come
,
let
us
four
to
dinner
.
I
dare
say
This
quarrel
will
drink
blood
another
day
.
Thy
grave
admonishments
prevail
with
me
.
But
yet
methinks
my
father’s
execution
Was
nothing
less
than
bloody
tyranny
.
And
peace
,
no
war
,
befall
thy
parting
soul
.
In
prison
hast
thou
spent
a
pilgrimage
,
And
like
a
hermit
overpassed
thy
days
.
—
Well
,
I
will
lock
his
counsel
in
my
breast
,
And
what
I
do
imagine
,
let
that
rest
.
—
Keepers
,
convey
him
hence
,
and
I
myself
Will
see
his
burial
better
than
his
life
.
Here
dies
the
dusky
torch
of
Mortimer
,
Choked
with
ambition
of
the
meaner
sort
.
And
for
those
wrongs
,
those
bitter
injuries
,
Which
Somerset
hath
offered
to
my
house
,
I
doubt
not
but
with
honor
to
redress
.
And
therefore
haste
I
to
the
Parliament
,
Either
to
be
restorèd
to
my
blood
,
Or
make
mine
ill
th’
advantage
of
my
good
.
Yield
,
my
Lord
Protector
—
yield
,
Winchester
—
Except
you
mean
with
obstinate
repulse
To
slay
your
sovereign
and
destroy
the
realm
.
You
see
what
mischief
,
and
what
murder
too
,
Hath
been
enacted
through
your
enmity
.
Then
be
at
peace
,
except
you
thirst
for
blood
.
Behold
,
my
Lord
of
Winchester
,
the
Duke
Hath
banished
moody
discontented
fury
,
As
by
his
smoothèd
brows
it
doth
appear
.
Why
look
you
still
so
stern
and
tragical
?
And
those
occasions
,
uncle
,
were
of
force
.
—
Therefore
,
my
loving
lords
,
our
pleasure
is
That
Richard
be
restorèd
to
his
blood
.
Let
Richard
be
restorèd
to
his
blood
;
So
shall
his
father’s
wrongs
be
recompensed
.
Away
,
captains
.
Let’s
get
us
from
the
walls
,
For
Talbot
means
no
goodness
by
his
looks
.
—
Goodbye
,
my
lord
.
We
came
but
to
tell
you
That
we
are
here
.
Look
on
thy
country
,
look
on
fertile
France
,
And
see
the
cities
and
the
towns
defaced
By
wasting
ruin
of
the
cruel
foe
.
As
looks
the
mother
on
her
lowly
babe
When
death
doth
close
his
tender-dying
eyes
,
See
,
see
the
pining
malady
of
France
:
Behold
the
wounds
,
the
most
unnatural
wounds
,
Which
thou
thyself
hast
given
her
woeful
breast
.
O
,
turn
thy
edgèd
sword
another
way
;
Strike
those
that
hurt
,
and
hurt
not
those
that
help
.
One
drop
of
blood
drawn
from
thy
country’s
bosom
Should
grieve
thee
more
than
streams
of
foreign
gore
.
Return
thee
therefore
with
a
flood
of
tears
,
And
wash
away
thy
country’s
stainèd
spots
.
Villain
,
thou
knowest
the
law
of
arms
is
such
That
whoso
draws
a
sword
’tis
present
death
,
Or
else
this
blow
should
broach
thy
dearest
blood
.
But
I’ll
unto
his
Majesty
,
and
crave
I
may
have
liberty
to
venge
this
wrong
,
When
thou
shalt
see
I’ll
meet
thee
to
thy
cost
.
When
first
this
Order
was
ordained
,
my
lords
,
Knights
of
the
Garter
were
of
noble
birth
,
Valiant
and
virtuous
,
full
of
haughty
courage
,
Such
as
were
grown
to
credit
by
the
wars
;
Not
fearing
death
nor
shrinking
for
distress
,
But
always
resolute
in
most
extremes
.
He
then
that
is
not
furnished
in
this
sort
Doth
but
usurp
the
sacred
name
of
knight
,
Profaning
this
most
honorable
Order
,
And
should
,
if
I
were
worthy
to
be
judge
,
Be
quite
degraded
,
like
a
hedge-born
swain
That
doth
presume
to
boast
of
gentle
blood
.
Come
hither
,
you
that
would
be
combatants
:
Henceforth
I
charge
you
,
as
you
love
our
favor
,
Quite
to
forget
this
quarrel
and
the
cause
.
—
And
you
,
my
lords
,
remember
where
we
are
:
In
France
,
amongst
a
fickle
wavering
nation
.
If
they
perceive
dissension
in
our
looks
,
And
that
within
ourselves
we
disagree
,
How
will
their
grudging
stomachs
be
provoked
To
willful
disobedience
and
rebel
!
Besides
,
what
infamy
will
there
arise
When
foreign
princes
shall
be
certified
That
for
a
toy
,
a
thing
of
no
regard
,
King
Henry’s
peers
and
chief
nobility
Destroyed
themselves
and
lost
the
realm
of
France
!
O
,
think
upon
the
conquest
of
my
father
,
My
tender
years
,
and
let
us
not
forgo
That
for
a
trifle
that
was
bought
with
blood
.
Let
me
be
umpire
in
this
doubtful
strife
.
I
see
no
reason
if
I
wear
this
rose
That
anyone
should
therefore
be
suspicious
I
more
incline
to
Somerset
than
York
.
Both
are
my
kinsmen
,
and
I
love
them
both
.
As
well
they
may
upbraid
me
with
my
crown
Because
,
forsooth
,
the
King
of
Scots
is
crowned
.
But
your
discretions
better
can
persuade
Than
I
am
able
to
instruct
or
teach
;
And
therefore
,
as
we
hither
came
in
peace
,
So
let
us
still
continue
peace
and
love
.
Cousin
of
York
,
we
institute
your
Grace
To
be
our
regent
in
these
parts
of
France
;
—
And
good
my
Lord
of
Somerset
,
unite
Your
troops
of
horsemen
with
his
bands
of
foot
;
And
like
true
subjects
,
sons
of
your
progenitors
,
Go
cheerfully
together
and
digest
Your
angry
choler
on
your
enemies
.
Ourself
,
my
lord
protector
,
and
the
rest
,
After
some
respite
,
will
return
to
Callice
;
From
thence
to
England
,
where
I
hope
ere
long
To
be
presented
,
by
your
victories
,
With
Charles
,
Alanson
,
and
that
traitorous
rout
.
Go
to
the
gates
of
Bordeaux
,
trumpeter
.
Summon
their
general
unto
the
wall
.
English
John
Talbot
,
captains
,
calls
you
forth
,
Servant-in-arms
to
Harry
,
King
of
England
,
And
thus
he
would
:
open
your
city
gates
,
Be
humble
to
us
,
call
my
sovereign
yours
,
And
do
him
homage
as
obedient
subjects
,
And
I’ll
withdraw
me
and
my
bloody
power
.
But
if
you
frown
upon
this
proffered
peace
,
You
tempt
the
fury
of
my
three
attendants
,
Lean
Famine
,
quartering
Steel
,
and
climbing
Fire
,
Who
,
in
a
moment
,
even
with
the
earth
Shall
lay
your
stately
and
air-braving
towers
,
If
you
forsake
the
offer
of
their
love
.
Thou
ominous
and
fearful
owl
of
death
,
Our
nation’s
terror
and
their
bloody
scourge
,
The
period
of
thy
tyranny
approacheth
.
On
us
thou
canst
not
enter
but
by
death
;
For
I
protest
we
are
well
fortified
And
strong
enough
to
issue
out
and
fight
.
If
thou
retire
,
the
Dauphin
,
well
appointed
,
Stands
with
the
snares
of
war
to
tangle
thee
.
On
either
hand
thee
,
there
are
squadrons
pitched
To
wall
thee
from
the
liberty
of
flight
;
And
no
way
canst
thou
turn
thee
for
redress
But
Death
doth
front
thee
with
apparent
spoil
,
And
pale
Destruction
meets
thee
in
the
face
.
Ten
thousand
French
have
ta’en
the
Sacrament
To
rive
their
dangerous
artillery
Upon
no
Christian
soul
but
English
Talbot
.
Lo
,
there
thou
stand’st
,
a
breathing
valiant
man
Of
an
invincible
unconquered
spirit
.
This
is
the
latest
glory
of
thy
praise
That
I
,
thy
enemy
,
due
thee
withal
;
For
ere
the
glass
that
now
begins
to
run
Finish
the
process
of
his
sandy
hour
,
These
eyes
,
that
see
thee
now
well-colorèd
,
Shall
see
thee
withered
,
bloody
,
pale
,
and
dead
.
Hark
,
hark
,
the
Dauphin’s
drum
,
a
warning
bell
,
Sings
heavy
music
to
thy
timorous
soul
,
And
mine
shall
ring
thy
dire
departure
out
.
He
fables
not
;
I
hear
the
enemy
.
Out
,
some
light
horsemen
,
and
peruse
their
wings
.
O
,
negligent
and
heedless
discipline
,
How
are
we
parked
and
bounded
in
a
pale
,
A
little
herd
of
England’s
timorous
deer
Mazed
with
a
yelping
kennel
of
French
curs
.
If
we
be
English
deer
,
be
then
in
blood
,
Not
rascal-like
to
fall
down
with
a
pinch
,
But
rather
,
moody-mad
and
desperate
stags
,
Turn
on
the
bloody
hounds
with
heads
of
steel
And
make
the
cowards
stand
aloof
at
bay
.
Sell
every
man
his
life
as
dear
as
mine
And
they
shall
find
dear
deer
of
us
,
my
friends
.
God
and
Saint
George
,
Talbot
and
England’s
right
,
Prosper
our
colors
in
this
dangerous
fight
!
Whither
,
my
lord
?
From
bought
and
sold
Lord
Talbot
,
Who
,
ringed
about
with
bold
adversity
,
Cries
out
for
noble
York
and
Somerset
To
beat
assailing
Death
from
his
weak
regions
;
And
whiles
the
honorable
captain
there
Drops
bloody
sweat
from
his
war-wearied
limbs
And
,
in
advantage
ling’ring
,
looks
for
rescue
,
You
,
his
false
hopes
,
the
trust
of
England’s
honor
,
Keep
off
aloof
with
worthless
emulation
.
Let
not
your
private
discord
keep
away
The
levied
succors
that
should
lend
him
aid
,
While
he
,
renownèd
noble
gentleman
,
Yield
up
his
life
unto
a
world
of
odds
.
Orleance
the
Bastard
,
Charles
,
Burgundy
,
Alanson
,
Reignier
compass
him
about
,
And
Talbot
perisheth
by
your
default
.
Is
my
name
Talbot
?
And
am
I
your
son
?
And
shall
I
fly
?
O
,
if
you
love
my
mother
,
Dishonor
not
her
honorable
name
To
make
a
bastard
and
a
slave
of
me
!
The
world
will
say
He
is
not
Talbot’s
blood
,
That
basely
fled
when
noble
Talbot
stood
.
When
from
the
Dauphin’s
crest
thy
sword
struck
fire
,
It
warmed
thy
father’s
heart
with
proud
desire
Of
bold-faced
victory
.
Then
leaden
age
,
Quickened
with
youthful
spleen
and
warlike
rage
,
Beat
down
Alanson
,
Orleance
,
Burgundy
,
And
from
the
pride
of
Gallia
rescued
thee
.
The
ireful
Bastard
Orleance
,
that
drew
blood
From
thee
,
my
boy
,
and
had
the
maidenhood
Of
thy
first
fight
,
I
soon
encounterèd
,
And
,
interchanging
blows
,
I
quickly
shed
Some
of
his
bastard
blood
,
and
in
disgrace
Bespoke
him
thus
:
Contaminated
,
base
,
And
misbegotten
blood
I
spill
of
thine
,
Mean
and
right
poor
,
for
that
pure
blood
of
mine
Which
thou
didst
force
from
Talbot
,
my
brave
boy
.
Here
,
purposing
the
Bastard
to
destroy
,
Came
in
strong
rescue
.
Speak
,
thy
father’s
care
:
Art
thou
not
weary
,
John
?
How
dost
thou
fare
?
Wilt
thou
yet
leave
the
battle
,
boy
,
and
fly
,
Now
thou
art
sealed
the
son
of
chivalry
?
Fly
,
to
revenge
my
death
when
I
am
dead
;
The
help
of
one
stands
me
in
little
stead
.
O
,
too
much
folly
is
it
,
well
I
wot
,
To
hazard
all
our
lives
in
one
small
boat
.
If
I
today
die
not
with
Frenchmen’s
rage
,
Tomorrow
I
shall
die
with
mickle
age
.
By
me
they
nothing
gain
,
and
,
if
I
stay
,
’Tis
but
the
short’ning
of
my
life
one
day
.
In
thee
thy
mother
dies
,
our
household’s
name
,
My
death’s
revenge
,
thy
youth
,
and
England’s
fame
.
All
these
and
more
we
hazard
by
thy
stay
;
All
these
are
saved
if
thou
wilt
fly
away
.
The
sword
of
Orleance
hath
not
made
me
smart
;
These
words
of
yours
draw
lifeblood
from
my
heart
.
On
that
advantage
,
bought
with
such
a
shame
,
To
save
a
paltry
life
and
slay
bright
fame
,
Before
young
Talbot
from
old
Talbot
fly
,
The
coward
horse
that
bears
me
fall
and
die
!
And
like
me
to
the
peasant
boys
of
France
,
To
be
shame’s
scorn
and
subject
of
mischance
!
Surely
,
by
all
the
glory
you
have
won
,
An
if
I
fly
,
I
am
not
Talbot’s
son
.
Then
talk
no
more
of
flight
,
it
is
no
boot
;
If
son
to
Talbot
,
die
at
Talbot’s
foot
.
Where
is
my
other
life
?
Mine
own
is
gone
.
O
,
where’s
young
Talbot
?
Where
is
valiant
John
?
Triumphant
Death
,
smeared
with
captivity
,
Young
Talbot’s
valor
makes
me
smile
at
thee
.
When
he
perceived
me
shrink
and
on
my
knee
,
His
bloody
sword
he
brandished
over
me
,
And
like
a
hungry
lion
did
commence
Rough
deeds
of
rage
and
stern
impatience
;
But
when
my
angry
guardant
stood
alone
,
Tend’ring
my
ruin
and
assailed
of
none
,
Dizzy-eyed
fury
and
great
rage
of
heart
Suddenly
made
him
from
my
side
to
start
Into
the
clust’ring
battle
of
the
French
;
And
in
that
sea
of
blood
,
my
boy
did
drench
His
over-mounting
spirit
;
and
there
died
My
Icarus
,
my
blossom
,
in
his
pride
.
Had
York
and
Somerset
brought
rescue
in
,
We
should
have
found
a
bloody
day
of
this
.
How
the
young
whelp
of
Talbot’s
,
raging
wood
,
Did
flesh
his
puny
sword
in
Frenchmen’s
blood
!
Doubtless
he
would
have
made
a
noble
knight
.
See
where
he
lies
inhearsèd
in
the
arms
Of
the
most
bloody
nurser
of
his
harms
.
So
we
be
rid
of
them
,
do
with
him
what
thou
wilt
.
And
now
to
Paris
in
this
conquering
vein
.
All
will
be
ours
,
now
bloody
Talbot’s
slain
.
Well
,
my
good
lord
,
and
as
the
only
means
To
stop
effusion
of
our
Christian
blood
And
stablish
quietness
on
every
side
.
Ay
,
marry
,
uncle
,
for
I
always
thought
It
was
both
impious
and
unnatural
That
such
immanity
and
bloody
strife
Should
reign
among
professors
of
one
faith
.
The
Regent
conquers
and
the
Frenchmen
fly
.
Now
help
,
you
charming
spells
and
periapts
,
And
you
choice
spirits
that
admonish
me
,
And
give
me
signs
of
future
accidents
.
You
speedy
helpers
,
that
are
substitutes
Under
the
lordly
monarch
of
the
north
,
Appear
,
and
aid
me
in
this
enterprise
.
This
speed
and
quick
appearance
argues
proof
Of
your
accustomed
diligence
to
me
.
Now
,
you
familiar
spirits
that
are
culled
Out
of
the
powerful
regions
under
earth
,
Help
me
this
once
,
that
France
may
get
the
field
.
O
,
hold
me
not
with
silence
overlong
!
Where
I
was
wont
to
feed
you
with
my
blood
,
I’ll
lop
a
member
off
and
give
it
you
In
earnest
of
a
further
benefit
,
So
you
do
condescend
to
help
me
now
.
No
hope
to
have
redress
?
My
body
shall
Pay
recompense
if
you
will
grant
my
suit
.
Cannot
my
body
nor
blood-sacrifice
Entreat
you
to
your
wonted
furtherance
?
Then
take
my
soul
—
my
body
,
soul
,
and
all
—
Before
that
England
give
the
French
the
foil
.
See
,
they
forsake
me
.
Now
the
time
is
come
That
France
must
vail
her
lofty-plumèd
crest
And
let
her
head
fall
into
England’s
lap
.
My
ancient
incantations
are
too
weak
,
And
hell
too
strong
for
me
to
buckle
with
.
Now
,
France
,
thy
glory
droopeth
to
the
dust
.
A
plaguing
mischief
light
on
Charles
and
thee
,
And
may
you
both
be
suddenly
surprised
By
bloody
hands
in
sleeping
on
your
beds
!
Decrepit
miser
,
base
ignoble
wretch
!
I
am
descended
of
a
gentler
blood
.
Thou
art
no
father
nor
no
friend
of
mine
.
First
,
let
me
tell
you
whom
you
have
condemned
:
Not
one
begotten
of
a
shepherd
swain
,
But
issued
from
the
progeny
of
kings
,
Virtuous
and
holy
,
chosen
from
above
By
inspiration
of
celestial
grace
To
work
exceeding
miracles
on
earth
.
I
never
had
to
do
with
wicked
spirits
.
But
you
,
that
are
polluted
with
your
lusts
,
Stained
with
the
guiltless
blood
of
innocents
,
Corrupt
and
tainted
with
a
thousand
vices
,
Because
you
want
the
grace
that
others
have
,
You
judge
it
straight
a
thing
impossible
To
compass
wonders
but
by
help
of
devils
.
No
,
misconceivèd
!
Joan
of
Arc
hath
been
A
virgin
from
her
tender
infancy
,
Chaste
and
immaculate
in
very
thought
,
Whose
maiden
blood
,
thus
rigorously
effused
,
Will
cry
for
vengeance
at
the
gates
of
heaven
.
Will
nothing
turn
your
unrelenting
hearts
?
Then
,
Joan
,
discover
thine
infirmity
,
That
warranteth
by
law
to
be
thy
privilege
:
I
am
with
child
,
you
bloody
homicides
.
Murder
not
then
the
fruit
within
my
womb
,
Although
you
hale
me
to
a
violent
death
.
Then
lead
me
hence
,
with
whom
I
leave
my
curse
:
May
never
glorious
sun
reflex
his
beams
Upon
the
country
where
you
make
abode
,
But
darkness
and
the
gloomy
shade
of
death
Environ
you
,
till
mischief
and
despair
Drive
you
to
break
your
necks
or
hang
yourselves
.
Insulting
Charles
,
hast
thou
by
secret
means
Used
intercession
to
obtain
a
league
And
,
now
the
matter
grows
to
compromise
,
Stand’st
thou
aloof
upon
comparison
?
Either
accept
the
title
thou
usurp’st
,
Of
benefit
proceeding
from
our
king
And
not
of
any
challenge
of
desert
,
Or
we
will
plague
thee
with
incessant
wars
.
For
grief
that
they
are
past
recovery
;
For
,
were
there
hope
to
conquer
them
again
,
My
sword
should
shed
hot
blood
,
mine
eyes
no
tears
.
Anjou
and
Maine
?
Myself
did
win
them
both
!
Those
provinces
these
arms
of
mine
did
conquer
.
And
are
the
cities
that
I
got
with
wounds
Delivered
up
again
with
peaceful
words
?
Mort
Dieu
!
So
,
there
goes
our
Protector
in
a
rage
.
’Tis
known
to
you
he
is
mine
enemy
,
Nay
,
more
,
an
enemy
unto
you
all
,
And
no
great
friend
,
I
fear
me
,
to
the
King
.
Consider
,
lords
,
he
is
the
next
of
blood
And
heir
apparent
to
the
English
crown
.
Had
Henry
got
an
empire
by
his
marriage
,
And
all
the
wealthy
kingdoms
of
the
West
,
There’s
reason
he
should
be
displeased
at
it
.
Look
to
it
,
lords
.
Let
not
his
smoothing
words
Bewitch
your
hearts
;
be
wise
and
circumspect
.
What
though
the
common
people
favor
him
,
Calling
him
Humphrey
,
the
good
Duke
of
Gloucester
,
Clapping
their
hands
and
crying
with
loud
voice
Jesu
maintain
your
royal
Excellence
!
With
God
preserve
the
good
Duke
Humphrey
!
I
fear
me
,
lords
,
for
all
this
flattering
gloss
,
He
will
be
found
a
dangerous
Protector
.
Then
let’s
make
haste
away
and
look
unto
the
main
.
Anjou
and
Maine
are
given
to
the
French
;
Paris
is
lost
;
the
state
of
Normandy
Stands
on
a
tickle
point
now
they
are
gone
.
Suffolk
concluded
on
the
articles
,
The
peers
agreed
,
and
Henry
was
well
pleased
To
change
two
dukedoms
for
a
duke’s
fair
daughter
.
I
cannot
blame
them
all
.
What
is
’t
to
them
?
’Tis
thine
they
give
away
,
and
not
their
own
.
Pirates
may
make
cheap
pennyworths
of
their
pillage
,
And
purchase
friends
,
and
give
to
courtesans
,
Still
reveling
like
lords
till
all
be
gone
;
Whileas
the
silly
owner
of
the
goods
Weeps
over
them
,
and
wrings
his
hapless
hands
,
And
shakes
his
head
,
and
trembling
stands
aloof
,
While
all
is
shared
and
all
is
borne
away
,
Ready
to
starve
,
and
dare
not
touch
his
own
.
So
York
must
sit
and
fret
and
bite
his
tongue
While
his
own
lands
are
bargained
for
and
sold
.
Methinks
the
realms
of
England
,
France
,
and
Ireland
Bear
that
proportion
to
my
flesh
and
blood
As
did
the
fatal
brand
Althaea
burnt
Unto
the
Prince’s
heart
of
Calydon
.
Anjou
and
Maine
both
given
unto
the
French
!
Cold
news
for
me
,
for
I
had
hope
of
France
,
Even
as
I
have
of
fertile
England’s
soil
.
A
day
will
come
when
York
shall
claim
his
own
;
And
therefore
I
will
take
the
Nevilles’
parts
And
make
a
show
of
love
to
proud
Duke
Humphrey
,
And
,
when
I
spy
advantage
,
claim
the
crown
,
For
that’s
the
golden
mark
I
seek
to
hit
.
Nor
shall
proud
Lancaster
usurp
my
right
,
Nor
hold
the
scepter
in
his
childish
fist
,
Nor
wear
the
diadem
upon
his
head
,
Whose
churchlike
humors
fits
not
for
a
crown
.
Then
,
York
,
be
still
awhile
till
time
do
serve
.
Watch
thou
and
wake
,
when
others
be
asleep
,
To
pry
into
the
secrets
of
the
state
Till
Henry
,
surfeiting
in
joys
of
love
With
his
new
bride
and
England’s
dear-bought
queen
,
And
Humphrey
with
the
peers
be
fall’n
at
jars
.
Then
will
I
raise
aloft
the
milk-white
rose
,
With
whose
sweet
smell
the
air
shall
be
perfumed
,
And
in
my
standard
bear
the
arms
of
York
,
To
grapple
with
the
house
of
Lancaster
;
And
force
perforce
I’ll
make
him
yield
the
crown
,
Whose
bookish
rule
hath
pulled
fair
England
down
.
Yes
,
my
good
lord
.
I’ll
follow
presently
.
Follow
I
must
;
I
cannot
go
before
While
Gloucester
bears
this
base
and
humble
mind
.
Were
I
a
man
,
a
duke
,
and
next
of
blood
,
I
would
remove
these
tedious
stumbling
blocks
And
smooth
my
way
upon
their
headless
necks
;
And
,
being
a
woman
,
I
will
not
be
slack
To
play
my
part
in
Fortune’s
pageant
.
—
Where
are
you
there
?
Sir
John
!
Nay
,
fear
not
,
man
.
We
are
alone
;
here’s
none
but
thee
and
I
.
Against
her
will
,
good
king
?
Look
to
’t
in
time
.
She’ll
hamper
thee
and
dandle
thee
like
a
baby
.
Though
in
this
place
most
master
wear
no
breeches
,
She
shall
not
strike
Dame
Eleanor
unrevenged
.
Red , master , red as blood .
Gloucester
,
see
here
the
tainture
of
thy
nest
,
And
look
thyself
be
faultless
,
thou
wert
best
.
Well
,
for
this
night
we
will
repose
us
here
.
Tomorrow
toward
London
back
again
,
To
look
into
this
business
thoroughly
,
And
call
these
foul
offenders
to
their
answers
,
And
poise
the
cause
in
Justice’
equal
scales
,
Whose
beam
stands
sure
,
whose
rightful
cause
prevails
.
We
thank
you
,
lords
.
But
I
am
not
your
king
Till
I
be
crowned
,
and
that
my
sword
be
stained
With
heart-blood
of
the
house
of
Lancaster
;
And
that’s
not
suddenly
to
be
performed
,
But
with
advice
and
silent
secrecy
.
Do
you
as
I
do
in
these
dangerous
days
:
Wink
at
the
Duke
of
Suffolk’s
insolence
,
At
Beaufort’s
pride
,
at
Somerset’s
ambition
,
At
Buckingham
,
and
all
the
crew
of
them
,
Till
they
have
snared
the
shepherd
of
the
flock
,
That
virtuous
prince
,
the
good
Duke
Humphrey
.
’Tis
that
they
seek
;
and
they
,
in
seeking
that
,
Shall
find
their
deaths
,
if
York
can
prophesy
.
Ten
is
the
hour
that
was
appointed
me
To
watch
the
coming
of
my
punished
duchess
.
Uneath
may
she
endure
the
flinty
streets
,
To
tread
them
with
her
tender-feeling
feet
.
Sweet
Nell
,
ill
can
thy
noble
mind
abrook
The
abject
people
gazing
on
thy
face
With
envious
looks
laughing
at
thy
shame
,
That
erst
did
follow
thy
proud
chariot
wheels
When
thou
didst
ride
in
triumph
through
the
streets
.
But
,
soft
!
I
think
she
comes
,
and
I’ll
prepare
My
tearstained
eyes
to
see
her
miseries
.
Come
you
,
my
lord
,
to
see
my
open
shame
?
Now
thou
dost
penance
too
.
Look
how
they
gaze
!
See
how
the
giddy
multitude
do
point
,
And
nod
their
heads
,
and
throw
their
eyes
on
thee
.
Ah
,
Gloucester
,
hide
thee
from
their
hateful
looks
,
And
,
in
thy
closet
pent
up
,
rue
my
shame
,
And
ban
thine
enemies
,
both
mine
and
thine
.
Ah
,
Gloucester
,
teach
me
to
forget
myself
!
For
whilst
I
think
I
am
thy
married
wife
And
thou
a
prince
,
Protector
of
this
land
,
Methinks
I
should
not
thus
be
led
along
,
Mailed
up
in
shame
,
with
papers
on
my
back
,
And
followed
with
a
rabble
that
rejoice
To
see
my
tears
and
hear
my
deep-fet
groans
.
The
ruthless
flint
doth
cut
my
tender
feet
,
And
when
I
start
,
the
envious
people
laugh
And
bid
me
be
advisèd
how
I
tread
.
Ah
,
Humphrey
,
can
I
bear
this
shameful
yoke
?
Trowest
thou
that
e’er
I’ll
look
upon
the
world
Or
count
them
happy
that
enjoys
the
sun
?
No
,
dark
shall
be
my
light
,
and
night
my
day
.
To
think
upon
my
pomp
shall
be
my
hell
.
Sometimes
I’ll
say
I
am
Duke
Humphrey’s
wife
And
he
a
prince
and
ruler
of
the
land
;
Yet
so
he
ruled
and
such
a
prince
he
was
As
he
stood
by
whilst
I
,
his
forlorn
duchess
,
Was
made
a
wonder
and
a
pointing-stock
To
every
idle
rascal
follower
.
But
be
thou
mild
,
and
blush
not
at
my
shame
,
Nor
stir
at
nothing
till
the
ax
of
death
Hang
over
thee
,
as
,
sure
,
it
shortly
will
.
For
Suffolk
,
he
that
can
do
all
in
all
With
her
that
hateth
thee
and
hates
us
all
,
And
York
and
impious
Beaufort
,
that
false
priest
,
Have
all
limed
bushes
to
betray
thy
wings
;
And
fly
thou
how
thou
canst
,
they’ll
tangle
thee
.
But
fear
not
thou
until
thy
foot
be
snared
,
Nor
never
seek
prevention
of
thy
foes
.
Can
you
not
see
,
or
will
you
not
observe
,
The
strangeness
of
his
altered
countenance
?
With
what
a
majesty
he
bears
himself
,
How
insolent
of
late
he
is
become
,
How
proud
,
how
peremptory
,
and
unlike
himself
?
We
know
the
time
since
he
was
mild
and
affable
;
And
if
we
did
but
glance
a
far-off
look
,
Immediately
he
was
upon
his
knee
,
That
all
the
court
admired
him
for
submission
.
But
meet
him
now
,
and
,
be
it
in
the
morn
When
everyone
will
give
the
time
of
day
,
He
knits
his
brow
and
shows
an
angry
eye
And
passeth
by
with
stiff
unbowèd
knee
,
Disdaining
duty
that
to
us
belongs
.
Small
curs
are
not
regarded
when
they
grin
,
But
great
men
tremble
when
the
lion
roars
—
And
Humphrey
is
no
little
man
in
England
.
First
,
note
that
he
is
near
you
in
descent
,
And
,
should
you
fall
,
he
is
the
next
will
mount
.
Meseemeth
then
it
is
no
policy
,
Respecting
what
a
rancorous
mind
he
bears
And
his
advantage
following
your
decease
,
That
he
should
come
about
your
royal
person
Or
be
admitted
to
your
Highness’
Council
.
By
flattery
hath
he
won
the
Commons’
hearts
;
And
when
he
please
to
make
commotion
,
’Tis
to
be
feared
they
all
will
follow
him
.
Now
’tis
the
spring
,
and
weeds
are
shallow-rooted
;
Suffer
them
now
,
and
they’ll
o’ergrow
the
garden
And
choke
the
herbs
for
want
of
husbandry
.
The
reverent
care
I
bear
unto
my
lord
Made
me
collect
these
dangers
in
the
Duke
.
If
it
be
fond
,
call
it
a
woman’s
fear
,
Which
fear
,
if
better
reasons
can
supplant
,
I
will
subscribe
and
say
I
wronged
the
Duke
.
My
lords
of
Suffolk
,
Buckingham
,
and
York
,
Reprove
my
allegation
if
you
can
,
Or
else
conclude
my
words
effectual
.
Why
,
’tis
well
known
that
whiles
I
was
Protector
,
Pity
was
all
the
fault
that
was
in
me
;
For
I
should
melt
at
an
offender’s
tears
,
And
lowly
words
were
ransom
for
their
fault
.
Unless
it
were
a
bloody
murderer
Or
foul
felonious
thief
that
fleeced
poor
passengers
,
I
never
gave
them
condign
punishment
.
Murder
indeed
,
that
bloody
sin
,
I
tortured
Above
the
felon
or
what
trespass
else
.
Ay
,
Margaret
.
My
heart
is
drowned
with
grief
,
Whose
flood
begins
to
flow
within
mine
eyes
,
My
body
round
engirt
with
misery
;
For
what’s
more
miserable
than
discontent
?
Ah
,
uncle
Humphrey
,
in
thy
face
I
see
The
map
of
honor
,
truth
,
and
loyalty
;
And
yet
,
good
Humphrey
,
is
the
hour
to
come
That
e’er
I
proved
thee
false
or
feared
thy
faith
.
What
louring
star
now
envies
thy
estate
That
these
great
lords
and
Margaret
our
queen
Do
seek
subversion
of
thy
harmless
life
?
Thou
never
didst
them
wrong
nor
no
man
wrong
.
And
as
the
butcher
takes
away
the
calf
And
binds
the
wretch
and
beats
it
when
it
strains
,
Bearing
it
to
the
bloody
slaughterhouse
,
Even
so
remorseless
have
they
borne
him
hence
;
And
as
the
dam
runs
lowing
up
and
down
,
Looking
the
way
her
harmless
young
one
went
,
And
can
do
naught
but
wail
her
darling’s
loss
,
Even
so
myself
bewails
good
Gloucester’s
case
With
sad
unhelpful
tears
,
and
with
dimmed
eyes
Look
after
him
and
cannot
do
him
good
,
So
mighty
are
his
vowèd
enemies
.
His
fortunes
I
will
weep
and
,
’twixt
each
groan
,
Say
Who’s
a
traitor
,
Gloucester
he
is
none
.
Madam
,
’tis
true
;
and
were
’t
not
madness
then
To
make
the
fox
surveyor
of
the
fold
—
Who
,
being
accused
a
crafty
murderer
,
His
guilt
should
be
but
idly
posted
over
Because
his
purpose
is
not
executed
?
No
,
let
him
die
in
that
he
is
a
fox
,
By
nature
proved
an
enemy
to
the
flock
,
Before
his
chaps
be
stained
with
crimson
blood
,
As
Humphrey
,
proved
by
reasons
,
to
my
liege
.
And
do
not
stand
on
quillets
how
to
slay
him
—
Be
it
by
gins
,
by
snares
,
by
subtlety
,
Sleeping
or
waking
.
’Tis
no
matter
how
,
So
he
be
dead
;
for
that
is
good
deceit
Which
mates
him
first
that
first
intends
deceit
.
My
lord
of
York
,
try
what
your
fortune
is
.
Th’
uncivil
kerns
of
Ireland
are
in
arms
And
temper
clay
with
blood
of
Englishmen
.
To
Ireland
will
you
lead
a
band
of
men
,
Collected
choicely
,
from
each
county
some
,
And
try
your
hap
against
the
Irishmen
?
Now
,
York
,
or
never
,
steel
thy
fearful
thoughts
And
change
misdoubt
to
resolution
.
Be
that
thou
hop’st
to
be
,
or
what
thou
art
Resign
to
death
;
it
is
not
worth
th’
enjoying
.
Let
pale-faced
fear
keep
with
the
mean-born
man
And
find
no
harbor
in
a
royal
heart
.
Faster
than
springtime
showers
comes
thought
on
thought
,
And
not
a
thought
but
thinks
on
dignity
.
My
brain
,
more
busy
than
the
laboring
spider
,
Weaves
tedious
snares
to
trap
mine
enemies
.
Well
,
nobles
,
well
,
’tis
politicly
done
To
send
me
packing
with
an
host
of
men
.
I
fear
me
you
but
warm
the
starvèd
snake
,
Who
,
cherished
in
your
breasts
,
will
sting
your
hearts
.
’Twas
men
I
lacked
,
and
you
will
give
them
me
;
I
take
it
kindly
.
Yet
be
well
assured
You
put
sharp
weapons
in
a
madman’s
hands
.
Whiles
I
in
Ireland
nourish
a
mighty
band
,
I
will
stir
up
in
England
some
black
storm
Shall
blow
ten
thousand
souls
to
heaven
or
hell
;
And
this
fell
tempest
shall
not
cease
to
rage
Until
the
golden
circuit
on
my
head
,
Like
to
the
glorious
sun’s
transparent
beams
,
Do
calm
the
fury
of
this
mad-bred
flaw
.
And
for
a
minister
of
my
intent
,
I
have
seduced
a
headstrong
Kentishman
,
John
Cade
of
Ashford
,
To
make
commotion
,
as
full
well
he
can
,
Under
the
title
of
John
Mortimer
.
In
Ireland
have
I
seen
this
stubborn
Cade
Oppose
himself
against
a
troop
of
kerns
,
And
fought
so
long
till
that
his
thighs
with
darts
Were
almost
like
a
sharp-quilled
porpentine
;
And
in
the
end
being
rescued
,
I
have
seen
Him
caper
upright
like
a
wild
Morisco
,
Shaking
the
bloody
darts
as
he
his
bells
.
Full
often
,
like
a
shag-haired
crafty
kern
,
Hath
he
conversèd
with
the
enemy
,
And
undiscovered
come
to
me
again
And
given
me
notice
of
their
villainies
.
This
devil
here
shall
be
my
substitute
;
For
that
John
Mortimer
,
which
now
is
dead
,
In
face
,
in
gait
,
in
speech
he
doth
resemble
.
By
this
,
I
shall
perceive
the
Commons’
mind
,
How
they
affect
the
house
and
claim
of
York
.
Say
he
be
taken
,
racked
,
and
torturèd
,
I
know
no
pain
they
can
inflict
upon
him
Will
make
him
say
I
moved
him
to
those
arms
.
Say
that
he
thrive
,
as
’tis
great
like
he
will
,
Why
then
from
Ireland
come
I
with
my
strength
And
reap
the
harvest
which
that
rascal
sowed
.
For
,
Humphrey
being
dead
,
as
he
shall
be
,
And
Henry
put
apart
,
the
next
for
me
.
I
thank
thee
,
Meg
.
These
words
content
me
much
.
How
now
?
Why
look’st
thou
pale
?
Why
tremblest
thou
?
Where
is
our
uncle
?
What’s
the
matter
,
Suffolk
?
What
,
doth
my
lord
of
Suffolk
comfort
me
?
Came
he
right
now
to
sing
a
raven’s
note
,
Whose
dismal
tune
bereft
my
vital
powers
,
And
thinks
he
that
the
chirping
of
a
wren
,
By
crying
comfort
from
a
hollow
breast
,
Can
chase
away
the
first-conceivèd
sound
?
Hide
not
thy
poison
with
such
sugared
words
.
Lay
not
thy
hands
on
me
.
Forbear
,
I
say
!
Their
touch
affrights
me
as
a
serpent’s
sting
.
Thou
baleful
messenger
,
out
of
my
sight
!
Upon
thy
eyeballs
,
murderous
Tyranny
Sits
in
grim
majesty
to
fright
the
world
.
Look
not
upon
me
,
for
thine
eyes
are
wounding
.
Yet
do
not
go
away
.
Come
,
basilisk
,
And
kill
the
innocent
gazer
with
thy
sight
;
For
in
the
shade
of
death
I
shall
find
joy
,
In
life
but
double
death
,
now
Gloucester’s
dead
.
Why
do
you
rate
my
lord
of
Suffolk
thus
?
Although
the
Duke
was
enemy
to
him
,
Yet
he
most
Christian-like
laments
his
death
.
And
for
myself
,
foe
as
he
was
to
me
,
Might
liquid
tears
or
heart-offending
groans
Or
blood-consuming
sighs
recall
his
life
,
I
would
be
blind
with
weeping
,
sick
with
groans
,
Look
pale
as
primrose
with
blood-drinking
sighs
,
And
all
to
have
the
noble
duke
alive
.
What
know
I
how
the
world
may
deem
of
me
?
For
it
is
known
we
were
but
hollow
friends
.
It
may
be
judged
I
made
the
Duke
away
;
So
shall
my
name
with
slander’s
tongue
be
wounded
And
princes’
courts
be
filled
with
my
reproach
.
This
get
I
by
his
death
.
Ay
me
,
unhappy
,
To
be
a
queen
and
crowned
with
infamy
!
Be
woe
for
me
,
more
wretched
than
he
is
.
What
,
dost
thou
turn
away
and
hide
thy
face
?
I
am
no
loathsome
leper
.
Look
on
me
.
What
,
art
thou
,
like
the
adder
,
waxen
deaf
?
Be
poisonous
too
,
and
kill
thy
forlorn
queen
.
Is
all
thy
comfort
shut
in
Gloucester’s
tomb
?
Why
,
then
,
Dame
Margaret
was
ne’er
thy
joy
.
Erect
his
statue
and
worship
it
,
And
make
my
image
but
an
alehouse
sign
.
Was
I
for
this
nigh-wracked
upon
the
sea
And
twice
by
awkward
wind
from
England’s
bank
Drove
back
again
unto
my
native
clime
?
What
boded
this
,
but
well
forewarning
wind
Did
seem
to
say
Seek
not
a
scorpion’s
nest
,
Nor
set
no
footing
on
this
unkind
shore
?
What
did
I
then
but
cursed
the
gentle
gusts
And
he
that
loosed
them
forth
their
brazen
caves
And
bid
them
blow
towards
England’s
blessèd
shore
Or
turn
our
stern
upon
a
dreadful
rock
?
Yet
Aeolus
would
not
be
a
murderer
,
But
left
that
hateful
office
unto
thee
.
The
pretty-vaulting
sea
refused
to
drown
me
,
Knowing
that
thou
wouldst
have
me
drowned
on
shore
With
tears
as
salt
as
sea
,
through
thy
unkindness
.
The
splitting
rocks
cow’red
in
the
sinking
sands
And
would
not
dash
me
with
their
ragged
sides
Because
thy
flinty
heart
,
more
hard
than
they
,
Might
in
thy
palace
perish
Margaret
.
As
far
as
I
could
ken
thy
chalky
cliffs
,
When
from
thy
shore
the
tempest
beat
us
back
,
I
stood
upon
the
hatches
in
the
storm
,
And
when
the
dusky
sky
began
to
rob
My
earnest-gaping
sight
of
thy
land’s
view
,
I
took
a
costly
jewel
from
my
neck
—
A
heart
it
was
,
bound
in
with
diamonds
—
And
threw
it
towards
thy
land
.
The
sea
received
it
,
And
so
I
wished
thy
body
might
my
heart
.
And
even
with
this
I
lost
fair
England’s
view
,
And
bid
mine
eyes
be
packing
with
my
heart
,
And
called
them
blind
and
dusky
spectacles
For
losing
ken
of
Albion’s
wishèd
coast
.
How
often
have
I
tempted
Suffolk’s
tongue
,
The
agent
of
thy
foul
inconstancy
,
To
sit
and
watch
me
,
as
Ascanius
did
When
he
to
madding
Dido
would
unfold
His
father’s
acts
commenced
in
burning
Troy
!
Am
I
not
witched
like
her
,
or
thou
not
false
like
him
?
Ay
me
,
I
can
no
more
.
Die
,
Margaret
,
For
Henry
weeps
that
thou
dost
live
so
long
.
See
how
the
blood
is
settled
in
his
face
.
Oft
have
I
seen
a
timely-parted
ghost
,
Of
ashy
semblance
,
meager
,
pale
,
and
bloodless
,
Being
all
descended
to
the
laboring
heart
,
Who
,
in
the
conflict
that
it
holds
with
death
,
Attracts
the
same
for
aidance
’gainst
the
enemy
,
Which
with
the
heart
there
cools
and
ne’er
returneth
To
blush
and
beautify
the
cheek
again
.
But
see
,
his
face
is
black
and
full
of
blood
;
His
eyeballs
further
out
than
when
he
lived
,
Staring
full
ghastly
,
like
a
strangled
man
;
His
hair
upreared
,
his
nostrils
stretched
with
struggling
;
His
hands
abroad
displayed
,
as
one
that
grasped
And
tugged
for
life
and
was
by
strength
subdued
.
Look
,
on
the
sheets
his
hair
,
you
see
,
is
sticking
;
His
well-proportioned
beard
made
rough
and
rugged
,
Like
to
the
summer’s
corn
by
tempest
lodged
.
It
cannot
be
but
he
was
murdered
here
.
The
least
of
all
these
signs
were
probable
.
Who
finds
the
heifer
dead
and
bleeding
fresh
,
And
sees
fast
by
a
butcher
with
an
ax
,
But
will
suspect
’twas
he
that
made
the
slaughter
?
Who
finds
the
partridge
in
the
puttock’s
nest
But
may
imagine
how
the
bird
was
dead
,
Although
the
kite
soar
with
unbloodied
beak
?
Even
so
suspicious
is
this
tragedy
.
But
that
the
guilt
of
murder
bucklers
thee
And
I
should
rob
the
deathsman
of
his
fee
,
Quitting
thee
thereby
of
ten
thousand
shames
,
And
that
my
sovereign’s
presence
makes
me
mild
,
I
would
,
false
murd’rous
coward
,
on
thy
knee
Make
thee
beg
pardon
for
thy
passèd
speech
And
say
it
was
thy
mother
that
thou
meant’st
,
That
thou
thyself
wast
born
in
bastardy
;
And
after
all
this
fearful
homage
done
,
Give
thee
thy
hire
and
send
thy
soul
to
hell
,
Pernicious
bloodsucker
of
sleeping
men
!
Thou
shalt
be
waking
while
I
shed
thy
blood
,
If
from
this
presence
thou
dar’st
go
with
me
.
Bring
me
unto
my
trial
when
you
will
.
Died
he
not
in
his
bed
?
Where
should
he
die
?
Can
I
make
men
live
,
whe’er
they
will
or
no
?
O
,
torture
me
no
more
!
I
will
confess
.
Alive
again
?
Then
show
me
where
he
is
.
I’ll
give
a
thousand
pound
to
look
upon
him
.
He
hath
no
eyes
!
The
dust
hath
blinded
them
.
Comb
down
his
hair
.
Look
,
look
.
It
stands
upright
,
Like
lime-twigs
set
to
catch
my
wingèd
soul
.
Give
me
some
drink
,
and
bid
the
apothecary
Bring
the
strong
poison
that
I
bought
of
him
.
O
,
Thou
eternal
mover
of
the
heavens
,
Look
with
a
gentle
eye
upon
this
wretch
!
O
,
beat
away
the
busy
meddling
fiend
That
lays
strong
siege
unto
this
wretch’s
soul
,
And
from
his
bosom
purge
this
black
despair
!
The
gaudy
,
blabbing
,
and
remorseful
day
Is
crept
into
the
bosom
of
the
sea
,
And
now
loud-howling
wolves
arouse
the
jades
That
drag
the
tragic
melancholy
night
,
Who
,
with
their
drowsy
,
slow
,
and
flagging
wings
Clip
dead
men’s
graves
,
and
from
their
misty
jaws
Breathe
foul
contagious
darkness
in
the
air
.
Therefore
bring
forth
the
soldiers
of
our
prize
;
For
,
whilst
our
pinnace
anchors
in
the
Downs
,
Here
shall
they
make
their
ransom
on
the
sand
,
Or
with
their
blood
stain
this
discolored
shore
.
—
Master
,
this
prisoner
freely
give
I
thee
.
—
And
,
thou
that
art
his
mate
,
make
boot
of
this
.
—
The
other
,
Walter
Whitmore
,
is
thy
share
.
Look
on
my
George
;
I
am
a
gentleman
.
Rate
me
at
what
thou
wilt
,
thou
shalt
be
paid
.
Thy
name
affrights
me
,
in
whose
sound
is
death
.
A
cunning
man
did
calculate
my
birth
And
told
me
that
by
water
I
should
die
.
Yet
let
not
this
make
thee
be
bloody-minded
;
Thy
name
is
Gualtier
,
being
rightly
sounded
.
Obscure
and
lousy
swain
,
King
Henry’s
blood
,
The
honorable
blood
of
Lancaster
,
Must
not
be
shed
by
such
a
jaded
groom
.
Hast
thou
not
kissed
thy
hand
and
held
my
stirrup
?
Bareheaded
plodded
by
my
footcloth
mule
,
And
thought
thee
happy
when
I
shook
my
head
?
How
often
hast
thou
waited
at
my
cup
,
Fed
from
my
trencher
,
kneeled
down
at
the
board
,
When
I
have
feasted
with
Queen
Margaret
?
Remember
it
,
and
let
it
make
thee
crestfall’n
,
Ay
,
and
allay
this
thy
abortive
pride
.
How
in
our
voiding
lobby
hast
thou
stood
And
duly
waited
for
my
coming
forth
?
This
hand
of
mine
hath
writ
in
thy
behalf
,
And
therefore
shall
it
charm
thy
riotous
tongue
.
O
,
that
I
were
a
god
,
to
shoot
forth
thunder
Upon
these
paltry
,
servile
,
abject
drudges
!
Small
things
make
base
men
proud
.
This
villain
here
,
Being
captain
of
a
pinnace
,
threatens
more
Than
Bargulus
,
the
strong
Illyrian
pirate
.
Drones
suck
not
eagles’
blood
,
but
rob
beehives
.
It
is
impossible
that
I
should
die
By
such
a
lowly
vassal
as
thyself
.
Thy
words
move
rage
and
not
remorse
in
me
.
I
go
of
message
from
the
Queen
to
France
.
I
charge
thee
waft
me
safely
cross
the
Channel
.
Suffolk’s
imperial
tongue
is
stern
and
rough
,
Used
to
command
,
untaught
to
plead
for
favor
.
Far
be
it
we
should
honor
such
as
these
With
humble
suit
.
No
,
rather
let
my
head
Stoop
to
the
block
than
these
knees
bow
to
any
Save
to
the
God
of
heaven
and
to
my
king
;
And
sooner
dance
upon
a
bloody
pole
Than
stand
uncovered
to
the
vulgar
groom
.
True
nobility
is
exempt
from
fear
.
—
More
can
I
bear
than
you
dare
execute
.
O
,
barbarous
and
bloody
spectacle
!
His
body
will
I
bear
unto
the
King
.
If
he
revenge
it
not
,
yet
will
his
friends
.
So
will
the
Queen
,
that
living
held
him
dear
.
But
angry
,
wrathful
,
and
inclined
to
blood
,
If
you
go
forward
.
Therefore
yield
,
or
die
.
Oft
have
I
heard
that
grief
softens
the
mind
And
makes
it
fearful
and
degenerate
.
Think
therefore
on
revenge
,
and
cease
to
weep
.
But
who
can
cease
to
weep
and
look
on
this
?
Here
may
his
head
lie
on
my
throbbing
breast
,
But
where’s
the
body
that
I
should
embrace
?
I’ll
send
some
holy
bishop
to
entreat
,
For
God
forbid
so
many
simple
souls
Should
perish
by
the
sword
!
And
I
myself
,
Rather
than
bloody
war
shall
cut
them
short
,
Will
parley
with
Jack
Cade
,
their
general
.
But
stay
,
I’ll
read
it
over
once
again
.
Tell
me
,
wherein
have
I
offended
most
?
Have
I
affected
wealth
or
honor
?
Speak
.
Are
my
chests
filled
up
with
extorted
gold
?
Is
my
apparel
sumptuous
to
behold
?
Whom
have
I
injured
,
that
you
seek
my
death
?
These
hands
are
free
from
guiltless
blood-shedding
,
This
breast
from
harboring
foul
deceitful
thoughts
.
O
,
let
me
live
!
Brave
thee
?
Ay
,
by
the
best
blood
that
ever
was
broached
,
and
beard
thee
too
.
Look
on
me
well
:
I
have
eat
no
meat
these
five
days
,
yet
come
thou
and
thy
five
men
,
and
if
I
do
not
leave
you
all
as
dead
as
a
doornail
,
I
pray
God
I
may
never
eat
grass
more
.
Nay
,
it
shall
ne’er
be
said
,
while
England
stands
,
That
Alexander
Iden
,
an
esquire
of
Kent
,
Took
odds
to
combat
a
poor
famished
man
.
Oppose
thy
steadfast
gazing
eyes
to
mine
;
See
if
thou
canst
outface
me
with
thy
looks
.
Set
limb
to
limb
,
and
thou
art
far
the
lesser
;
Thy
hand
is
but
a
finger
to
my
fist
,
Thy
leg
a
stick
comparèd
with
this
truncheon
.
My
foot
shall
fight
with
all
the
strength
thou
hast
;
And
if
mine
arm
be
heavèd
in
the
air
,
Thy
grave
is
digged
already
in
the
earth
.
As
for
words
,
whose
greatness
answers
words
,
Let
this
my
sword
report
what
speech
forbears
.
Is
’t
Cade
that
I
have
slain
,
that
monstrous
traitor
?
Sword
,
I
will
hallow
thee
for
this
thy
deed
,
And
hang
thee
o’er
my
tomb
when
I
am
dead
.
Ne’er
shall
this
blood
be
wipèd
from
thy
point
,
But
thou
shalt
wear
it
as
a
herald’s
coat
To
emblaze
the
honor
that
thy
master
got
.
How
now
?
Is
Somerset
at
liberty
?
Then
,
York
,
unloose
thy
long-imprisoned
thoughts
,
And
let
thy
tongue
be
equal
with
thy
heart
.
Shall
I
endure
the
sight
of
Somerset
?
—
False
king
,
why
hast
thou
broken
faith
with
me
,
Knowing
how
hardly
I
can
brook
abuse
?
King
did
I
call
thee
?
No
,
thou
art
not
king
,
Not
fit
to
govern
and
rule
multitudes
,
Which
dar’st
not
—
no
,
nor
canst
not
—
rule
a
traitor
.
That
head
of
thine
doth
not
become
a
crown
;
Thy
hand
is
made
to
grasp
a
palmer’s
staff
,
And
not
to
grace
an
awful
princely
scepter
.
That
gold
must
round
engirt
these
brows
of
mine
,
Whose
smile
and
frown
,
like
to
Achilles’
spear
,
Is
able
with
the
change
to
kill
and
cure
.
Here
is
a
hand
to
hold
a
scepter
up
And
with
the
same
to
act
controlling
laws
.
Give
place
.
By
heaven
,
thou
shalt
rule
no
more
O’er
him
whom
heaven
created
for
thy
ruler
.
O
,
blood-bespotted
Neapolitan
,
Outcast
of
Naples
,
England’s
bloody
scourge
!
The
sons
of
York
,
thy
betters
in
their
birth
,
Shall
be
their
father’s
bail
,
and
bane
to
those
That
for
my
surety
will
refuse
the
boys
.
See
where
they
come
;
I’ll
warrant
they’ll
make
it
good
.
I
thank
thee
,
Clifford
.
Say
,
what
news
with
thee
?
Nay
,
do
not
fright
us
with
an
angry
look
.
We
are
thy
sovereign
,
Clifford
;
kneel
again
.
For
thy
mistaking
so
,
we
pardon
thee
.
Look
in
a
glass
,
and
call
thy
image
so
.
I
am
thy
king
and
thou
a
false-heart
traitor
.
Call
hither
to
the
stake
my
two
brave
bears
,
That
,
with
the
very
shaking
of
their
chains
,
They
may
astonish
these
fell-lurking
curs
.
Bid
Salisbury
and
Warwick
come
to
me
.
Why
,
Warwick
,
hath
thy
knee
forgot
to
bow
?
—
Old
Salisbury
,
shame
to
thy
silver
hair
,
Thou
mad
misleader
of
thy
brainsick
son
!
What
,
wilt
thou
on
thy
deathbed
play
the
ruffian
And
seek
for
sorrow
with
thy
spectacles
?
O
,
where
is
faith
?
O
,
where
is
loyalty
?
If
it
be
banished
from
the
frosty
head
,
Where
shall
it
find
a
harbor
in
the
earth
?
Wilt
thou
go
dig
a
grave
to
find
out
war
,
And
shame
thine
honorable
age
with
blood
?
Why
art
thou
old
and
want’st
experience
?
Or
wherefore
dost
abuse
it
,
if
thou
hast
it
?
For
shame
!
In
duty
bend
thy
knee
to
me
That
bows
unto
the
grave
with
mickle
age
.
My
noble
father
,
Three
times
today
I
holp
him
to
his
horse
,
Three
times
bestrid
him
.
Thrice
I
led
him
off
,
Persuaded
him
from
any
further
act
;
But
still
,
where
danger
was
,
still
there
I
met
him
,
And
,
like
rich
hangings
in
a
homely
house
,
So
was
his
will
in
his
old
feeble
body
.
But
,
noble
as
he
is
,
look
where
he
comes
.
Now
,
by
my
sword
,
well
hast
thou
fought
today
!
Lord
Stafford’s
father
,
Duke
of
Buckingham
,
Is
either
slain
or
wounded
dangerous
.
I
cleft
his
beaver
with
a
downright
blow
.
That
this
is
true
,
father
,
behold
his
blood
.
And
,
brother
,
here’s
the
Earl
of
Wiltshire’s
blood
,
Whom
I
encountered
as
the
battles
joined
.
The
Bloody
Parliament
shall
this
be
called
Unless
Plantagenet
,
Duke
of
York
,
be
king
And
bashful
Henry
deposed
,
whose
cowardice
Hath
made
us
bywords
to
our
enemies
.
My
lords
,
look
where
the
sturdy
rebel
sits
,
Even
in
the
chair
of
state
!
Belike
he
means
,
Backed
by
the
power
of
Warwick
,
that
false
peer
,
To
aspire
unto
the
crown
and
reign
as
king
.
Earl
of
Northumberland
,
he
slew
thy
father
,
And
thine
,
Lord
Clifford
,
and
you
both
have
vowed
revenge
On
him
,
his
sons
,
his
favorites
,
and
his
friends
.
Plantagenet
,
of
thee
and
these
thy
sons
,
Thy
kinsmen
,
and
thy
friends
,
I’ll
have
more
lives
Than
drops
of
blood
were
in
my
father’s
veins
.
Do
right
unto
this
princely
Duke
of
York
,
Or
I
will
fill
the
house
with
armèd
men
,
And
over
the
chair
of
state
,
where
now
he
sits
,
Write
up
his
title
with
usurping
blood
.
Farewell
,
faint-hearted
and
degenerate
king
,
In
whose
cold
blood
no
spark
of
honor
bides
.
Here
comes
the
Queen
,
whose
looks
bewray
her
anger
.
I’ll
steal
away
.
Who
can
be
patient
in
such
extremes
?
Ah
,
wretched
man
,
would
I
had
died
a
maid
And
never
seen
thee
,
never
borne
thee
son
,
Seeing
thou
hast
proved
so
unnatural
a
father
.
Hath
he
deserved
to
lose
his
birthright
thus
?
Hadst
thou
but
loved
him
half
so
well
as
I
,
Or
felt
that
pain
which
I
did
for
him
once
,
Or
nourished
him
as
I
did
with
my
blood
,
Thou
wouldst
have
left
thy
dearest
heart-blood
there
,
Rather
than
have
made
that
savage
duke
thine
heir
And
disinherited
thine
only
son
.
An
oath
is
of
no
moment
,
being
not
took
Before
a
true
and
lawful
magistrate
That
hath
authority
over
him
that
swears
.
Henry
had
none
,
but
did
usurp
the
place
.
Then
,
seeing
’twas
he
that
made
you
to
depose
,
Your
oath
,
my
lord
,
is
vain
and
frivolous
.
Therefore
,
to
arms
!
And
,
father
,
do
but
think
How
sweet
a
thing
it
is
to
wear
a
crown
,
Within
whose
circuit
is
Elysium
And
all
that
poets
feign
of
bliss
and
joy
.
Why
do
we
linger
thus
?
I
cannot
rest
Until
the
white
rose
that
I
wear
be
dyed
Even
in
the
lukewarm
blood
of
Henry’s
heart
.
Ah
,
whither
shall
I
fly
to
scape
their
hands
?
Ah
,
tutor
,
look
where
bloody
Clifford
comes
.
So
looks
the
pent-up
lion
o’er
the
wretch
That
trembles
under
his
devouring
paws
;
And
so
he
walks
,
insulting
o’er
his
prey
;
And
so
he
comes
to
rend
his
limbs
asunder
.
Ah
,
gentle
Clifford
,
kill
me
with
thy
sword
And
not
with
such
a
cruel
threat’ning
look
.
Sweet
Clifford
,
hear
me
speak
before
I
die
.
I
am
too
mean
a
subject
for
thy
wrath
.
Be
thou
revenged
on
men
,
and
let
me
live
.
In
vain
thou
speak’st
,
poor
boy
.
My
father’s
blood
Hath
stopped
the
passage
where
thy
words
should
enter
.
Then
let
my
father’s
blood
open
it
again
;
He
is
a
man
and
,
Clifford
,
cope
with
him
.
Plantagenet
,
I
come
,
Plantagenet
!
And
this
thy
son’s
blood
,
cleaving
to
my
blade
,
Shall
rust
upon
my
weapon
till
thy
blood
,
Congealed
with
this
,
do
make
me
wipe
off
both
.
The
army
of
the
Queen
hath
got
the
field
.
My
uncles
both
are
slain
in
rescuing
me
;
And
all
my
followers
to
the
eager
foe
Turn
back
and
fly
like
ships
before
the
wind
,
Or
lambs
pursued
by
hunger-starvèd
wolves
.
My
sons
,
God
knows
what
hath
bechancèd
them
;
But
this
I
know
:
they
have
demeaned
themselves
Like
men
borne
to
renown
by
life
or
death
.
Three
times
did
Richard
make
a
lane
to
me
And
thrice
cried
Courage
,
father
,
fight
it
out
!
And
full
as
oft
came
Edward
to
my
side
,
With
purple
falchion
painted
to
the
hilt
In
blood
of
those
that
had
encountered
him
;
And
when
the
hardiest
warriors
did
retire
,
Richard
cried
Charge
,
and
give
no
foot
of
ground
!
And
cried
A
crown
or
else
a
glorious
tomb
;
A
scepter
or
an
earthly
sepulcher
!
With
this
we
charged
again
;
but
,
out
alas
,
We
budged
again
,
as
I
have
seen
a
swan
With
bootless
labor
swim
against
the
tide
And
spend
her
strength
with
over-matching
waves
.
Ah
,
hark
,
the
fatal
followers
do
pursue
,
And
I
am
faint
and
cannot
fly
their
fury
;
And
were
I
strong
,
I
would
not
shun
their
fury
.
The
sands
are
numbered
that
makes
up
my
life
.
Here
must
I
stay
,
and
here
my
life
must
end
.
Come
,
bloody
Clifford
,
rough
Northumberland
,
I
dare
your
quenchless
fury
to
more
rage
.
I
am
your
butt
,
and
I
abide
your
shot
.
Brave
warriors
,
Clifford
and
Northumberland
,
Come
,
make
him
stand
upon
this
molehill
here
That
raught
at
mountains
with
outstretchèd
arms
,
Yet
parted
but
the
shadow
with
his
hand
.
What
,
was
it
you
that
would
be
England’s
king
?
Was
’t
you
that
reveled
in
our
parliament
And
made
a
preachment
of
your
high
descent
?
Where
are
your
mess
of
sons
to
back
you
now
,
The
wanton
Edward
and
the
lusty
George
?
And
where’s
that
valiant
crookback
prodigy
,
Dickie
,
your
boy
,
that
with
his
grumbling
voice
Was
wont
to
cheer
his
dad
in
mutinies
?
Or
,
with
the
rest
,
where
is
your
darling
Rutland
?
Look
,
York
,
I
stained
this
napkin
with
the
blood
That
valiant
Clifford
with
his
rapier’s
point
Made
issue
from
the
bosom
of
the
boy
;
And
if
thine
eyes
can
water
for
his
death
,
I
give
thee
this
to
dry
thy
cheeks
withal
.
Alas
,
poor
York
,
but
that
I
hate
thee
deadly
I
should
lament
thy
miserable
state
.
I
prithee
grieve
to
make
me
merry
,
York
.
What
,
hath
thy
fiery
heart
so
parched
thine
entrails
That
not
a
tear
can
fall
for
Rutland’s
death
?
Why
art
thou
patient
,
man
?
Thou
shouldst
be
mad
;
And
I
,
to
make
thee
mad
,
do
mock
thee
thus
.
Stamp
,
rave
,
and
fret
,
that
I
may
sing
and
dance
.
Thou
would’st
be
fee’d
,
I
see
,
to
make
me
sport
.
—
York
cannot
speak
unless
he
wear
a
crown
.
A
crown
for
York
!
And
,
lords
,
bow
low
to
him
.
Hold
you
his
hands
whilst
I
do
set
it
on
.
Ay
,
marry
,
sir
,
now
looks
he
like
a
king
.
Ay
,
this
is
he
that
took
King
Henry’s
chair
,
And
this
is
he
was
his
adopted
heir
.
But
how
is
it
that
great
Plantagenet
Is
crowned
so
soon
and
broke
his
solemn
oath
?
—
As
I
bethink
me
,
you
should
not
be
king
Till
our
King
Henry
had
shook
hands
with
Death
.
And
will
you
pale
your
head
in
Henry’s
glory
And
rob
his
temples
of
the
diadem
Now
,
in
his
life
,
against
your
holy
oath
?
O
,
’tis
a
fault
too
too
unpardonable
.
Off
with
the
crown
and
,
with
the
crown
,
his
head
;
And
whilst
we
breathe
,
take
time
to
do
him
dead
.
She-wolf
of
France
,
but
worse
than
wolves
of
France
,
Whose
tongue
more
poisons
than
the
adder’s
tooth
:
How
ill-beseeming
is
it
in
thy
sex
To
triumph
like
an
Amazonian
trull
Upon
their
woes
whom
Fortune
captivates
.
But
that
thy
face
is
vizard-like
,
unchanging
,
Made
impudent
with
use
of
evil
deeds
,
I
would
assay
,
proud
queen
,
to
make
thee
blush
.
To
tell
thee
whence
thou
cam’st
,
of
whom
derived
,
Were
shame
enough
to
shame
thee
,
wert
thou
not
shameless
.
Thy
father
bears
the
type
of
King
of
Naples
,
Of
both
the
Sicils
,
and
Jerusalem
,
Yet
not
so
wealthy
as
an
English
yeoman
.
Hath
that
poor
monarch
taught
thee
to
insult
?
It
needs
not
,
nor
it
boots
thee
not
,
proud
queen
,
Unless
the
adage
must
be
verified
That
beggars
mounted
run
their
horse
to
death
.
’Tis
beauty
that
doth
oft
make
women
proud
,
But
God
He
knows
thy
share
thereof
is
small
.
’Tis
virtue
that
doth
make
them
most
admired
;
The
contrary
doth
make
thee
wondered
at
.
’Tis
government
that
makes
them
seem
divine
;
The
want
thereof
makes
thee
abominable
.
Thou
art
as
opposite
to
every
good
As
the
Antipodes
are
unto
us
Or
as
the
south
to
the
Septentrion
.
O
,
tiger’s
heart
wrapped
in
a
woman’s
hide
,
How
couldst
thou
drain
the
lifeblood
of
the
child
To
bid
the
father
wipe
his
eyes
withal
,
And
yet
be
seen
to
bear
a
woman’s
face
?
Women
are
soft
,
mild
,
pitiful
,
and
flexible
;
Thou
,
stern
,
obdurate
,
flinty
,
rough
,
remorseless
.
Bidd’st
thou
me
rage
?
Why
,
now
thou
hast
thy
wish
.
Wouldst
have
me
weep
?
Why
,
now
thou
hast
thy
will
;
For
raging
wind
blows
up
incessant
showers
,
And
when
the
rage
allays
,
the
rain
begins
.
These
tears
are
my
sweet
Rutland’s
obsequies
,
And
every
drop
cries
vengeance
for
his
death
’Gainst
thee
,
fell
Clifford
,
and
thee
,
false
Frenchwoman
!
That
face
of
his
the
hungry
cannibals
Would
not
have
touched
,
would
not
have
stained
with
blood
;
But
you
are
more
inhuman
,
more
inexorable
,
O
,
ten
times
more
than
tigers
of
Hyrcania
.
See
,
ruthless
queen
,
a
hapless
father’s
tears
.
This
cloth
thou
dipped’st
in
blood
of
my
sweet
boy
,
And
I
with
tears
do
wash
the
blood
away
.
Keep
thou
the
napkin
and
go
boast
of
this
;
And
if
thou
tell’st
the
heavy
story
right
,
Upon
my
soul
,
the
hearers
will
shed
tears
.
Yea
,
even
my
foes
will
shed
fast-falling
tears
And
say
Alas
,
it
was
a
piteous
deed
.
There
,
take
the
crown
and
,
with
the
crown
,
my
curse
,
And
in
thy
need
such
comfort
come
to
thee
As
now
I
reap
at
thy
too
cruel
hand
.
—
Hard-hearted
Clifford
,
take
me
from
the
world
,
My
soul
to
heaven
,
my
blood
upon
your
heads
.
Off
with
his
head
,
and
set
it
on
York
gates
,
So
York
may
overlook
the
town
of
York
.
I
cannot
joy
until
I
be
resolved
Where
our
right
valiant
father
is
become
.
I
saw
him
in
the
battle
range
about
And
watched
him
how
he
singled
Clifford
forth
.
Methought
he
bore
him
in
the
thickest
troop
As
doth
a
lion
in
a
herd
of
neat
,
Or
as
a
bear
encompassed
round
with
dogs
,
Who
having
pinched
a
few
and
made
them
cry
,
The
rest
stand
all
aloof
and
bark
at
him
;
So
fared
our
father
with
his
enemies
;
So
fled
his
enemies
my
warlike
father
.
Methinks
’tis
prize
enough
to
be
his
son
.
See
how
the
morning
opes
her
golden
gates
And
takes
her
farewell
of
the
glorious
sun
.
How
well
resembles
it
the
prime
of
youth
,
Trimmed
like
a
younker
,
prancing
to
his
love
!
Nay
,
bear
three
daughters
:
by
your
leave
I
speak
it
,
You
love
the
breeder
better
than
the
male
.
But
what
art
thou
whose
heavy
looks
foretell
Some
dreadful
story
hanging
on
thy
tongue
?
Ah
,
one
that
was
a
woeful
looker-on
Whenas
the
noble
Duke
of
York
was
slain
,
Your
princely
father
and
my
loving
lord
.
Environèd
he
was
with
many
foes
,
And
stood
against
them
,
as
the
hope
of
Troy
Against
the
Greeks
that
would
have
entered
Troy
.
But
Hercules
himself
must
yield
to
odds
;
And
many
strokes
,
though
with
a
little
axe
,
Hews
down
and
fells
the
hardest-timbered
oak
.
By
many
hands
your
father
was
subdued
,
But
only
slaughtered
by
the
ireful
arm
Of
unrelenting
Clifford
and
the
Queen
,
Who
crowned
the
gracious
duke
in
high
despite
,
Laughed
in
his
face
;
and
when
with
grief
he
wept
,
The
ruthless
queen
gave
him
to
dry
his
cheeks
A
napkin
steepèd
in
the
harmless
blood
Of
sweet
young
Rutland
,
by
rough
Clifford
slain
.
And
after
many
scorns
,
many
foul
taunts
,
They
took
his
head
and
on
the
gates
of
York
They
set
the
same
,
and
there
it
doth
remain
,
The
saddest
spectacle
that
e’er
I
viewed
.
Ten
days
ago
I
drowned
these
news
in
tears
.
And
now
to
add
more
measure
to
your
woes
,
I
come
to
tell
you
things
sith
then
befall’n
.
After
the
bloody
fray
at
Wakefield
fought
,
Where
your
brave
father
breathed
his
latest
gasp
,
Tidings
,
as
swiftly
as
the
posts
could
run
,
Were
brought
me
of
your
loss
and
his
depart
.
I
,
then
in
London
,
keeper
of
the
King
,
Mustered
my
soldiers
,
gathered
flocks
of
friends
,
Marched
toward
Saint
Albans
to
intercept
the
Queen
,
Bearing
the
King
in
my
behalf
along
;
For
by
my
scouts
I
was
advertisèd
That
she
was
coming
with
a
full
intent
To
dash
our
late
decree
in
Parliament
Touching
King
Henry’s
oath
and
your
succession
.
Short
tale
to
make
,
we
at
Saint
Albans
met
,
Our
battles
joined
,
and
both
sides
fiercely
fought
.
But
whether
’twas
the
coldness
of
the
King
,
Who
looked
full
gently
on
his
warlike
queen
,
That
robbed
my
soldiers
of
their
heated
spleen
,
Or
whether
’twas
report
of
her
success
Or
more
than
common
fear
of
Clifford’s
rigor
,
Who
thunders
to
his
captives
blood
and
death
,
I
cannot
judge
;
but
to
conclude
with
truth
,
Their
weapons
like
to
lightning
came
and
went
;
Our
soldiers’
,
like
the
night
owl’s
lazy
flight
Or
like
an
idle
thresher
with
a
flail
,
Fell
gently
down
,
as
if
they
struck
their
friends
.
I
cheered
them
up
with
justice
of
our
cause
,
With
promise
of
high
pay
and
great
rewards
,
But
all
in
vain
;
they
had
no
heart
to
fight
,
And
we
,
in
them
,
no
hope
to
win
the
day
,
So
that
we
fled
:
the
King
unto
the
Queen
;
Lord
George
your
brother
,
Norfolk
,
and
myself
In
haste
,
posthaste
,
are
come
to
join
with
you
;
For
in
the
Marches
here
we
heard
you
were
,
Making
another
head
to
fight
again
.
My
gracious
liege
,
this
too
much
lenity
And
harmful
pity
must
be
laid
aside
.
To
whom
do
lions
cast
their
gentle
looks
?
Not
to
the
beast
that
would
usurp
their
den
.
Whose
hand
is
that
the
forest
bear
doth
lick
?
Not
his
that
spoils
her
young
before
her
face
.
Who
scapes
the
lurking
serpent’s
mortal
sting
?
Not
he
that
sets
his
foot
upon
her
back
.
The
smallest
worm
will
turn
,
being
trodden
on
,
And
doves
will
peck
in
safeguard
of
their
brood
.
Ambitious
York
did
level
at
thy
crown
,
Thou
smiling
while
he
knit
his
angry
brows
.
He
,
but
a
duke
,
would
have
his
son
a
king
And
raise
his
issue
like
a
loving
sire
;
Thou
being
a
king
,
blest
with
a
goodly
son
,
Didst
yield
consent
to
disinherit
him
,
Which
argued
thee
a
most
unloving
father
.
Unreasonable
creatures
feed
their
young
;
And
though
man’s
face
be
fearful
to
their
eyes
,
Yet
in
protection
of
their
tender
ones
,
Who
hath
not
seen
them
,
even
with
those
wings
Which
sometime
they
have
used
with
fearful
flight
,
Make
war
with
him
that
climbed
unto
their
nest
,
Offering
their
own
lives
in
their
young’s
defense
?
For
shame
,
my
liege
,
make
them
your
precedent
.
Were
it
not
pity
that
this
goodly
boy
Should
lose
his
birthright
by
his
father’s
fault
,
And
long
hereafter
say
unto
his
child
What
my
great-grandfather
and
grandsire
got
,
My
careless
father
fondly
gave
away
?
Ah
,
what
a
shame
were
this
!
Look
on
the
boy
,
And
let
his
manly
face
,
which
promiseth
Successful
fortune
,
steel
thy
melting
heart
To
hold
thine
own
and
leave
thine
own
with
him
.
If
thou
deny
,
their
blood
upon
thy
head
,
For
York
in
justice
puts
his
armor
on
.
But
when
we
saw
our
sunshine
made
thy
spring
,
And
that
thy
summer
bred
us
no
increase
,
We
set
the
axe
to
thy
usurping
root
;
And
though
the
edge
hath
something
hit
ourselves
,
Yet
know
thou
,
since
we
have
begun
to
strike
,
We’ll
never
leave
till
we
have
hewn
thee
down
Or
bathed
thy
growing
with
our
heated
bloods
.
And
in
this
resolution
,
I
defy
thee
,
Not
willing
any
longer
conference
,
Since
thou
denied’st
the
gentle
king
to
speak
.
—
Sound
,
trumpets
!
Let
our
bloody
colors
wave
;
And
either
victory
or
else
a
grave
!
Ah
,
Warwick
,
why
hast
thou
withdrawn
thyself
?
Thy
brother’s
blood
the
thirsty
earth
hath
drunk
,
Broached
with
the
steely
point
of
Clifford’s
lance
,
And
in
the
very
pangs
of
death
he
cried
,
Like
to
a
dismal
clangor
heard
from
far
,
Warwick
,
revenge
!
Brother
,
revenge
my
death
!
So
,
underneath
the
belly
of
their
steeds
,
That
stained
their
fetlocks
in
his
smoking
blood
,
The
noble
gentleman
gave
up
the
ghost
.
Then
let
the
earth
be
drunken
with
our
blood
!
I’ll
kill
my
horse
because
I
will
not
fly
.
Why
stand
we
like
soft-hearted
women
here
,
Wailing
our
losses
whiles
the
foe
doth
rage
,
And
look
upon
,
as
if
the
tragedy
Were
played
in
jest
by
counterfeiting
actors
?
Here
on
my
knee
I
vow
to
God
above
I’ll
never
pause
again
,
never
stand
still
,
Till
either
death
hath
closed
these
eyes
of
mine
Or
Fortune
given
me
measure
of
revenge
.
This
battle
fares
like
to
the
morning’s
war
,
When
dying
clouds
contend
with
growing
light
,
What
time
the
shepherd
,
blowing
of
his
nails
,
Can
neither
call
it
perfect
day
nor
night
.
Now
sways
it
this
way
,
like
a
mighty
sea
Forced
by
the
tide
to
combat
with
the
wind
;
Now
sways
it
that
way
,
like
the
selfsame
sea
Forced
to
retire
by
fury
of
the
wind
.
Sometime
the
flood
prevails
,
and
then
the
wind
;
Now
one
the
better
,
then
another
best
,
Both
tugging
to
be
victors
,
breast
to
breast
,
Yet
neither
conqueror
nor
conquerèd
.
So
is
the
equal
poise
of
this
fell
war
.
Here
on
this
molehill
will
I
sit
me
down
.
To
whom
God
will
,
there
be
the
victory
;
For
Margaret
my
queen
and
Clifford
too
Have
chid
me
from
the
battle
,
swearing
both
They
prosper
best
of
all
when
I
am
thence
.
Would
I
were
dead
,
if
God’s
good
will
were
so
,
For
what
is
in
this
world
but
grief
and
woe
?
O
God
!
Methinks
it
were
a
happy
life
To
be
no
better
than
a
homely
swain
,
To
sit
upon
a
hill
as
I
do
now
,
To
carve
out
dials
quaintly
,
point
by
point
,
Thereby
to
see
the
minutes
how
they
run
:
How
many
makes
the
hour
full
complete
,
How
many
hours
brings
about
the
day
,
How
many
days
will
finish
up
the
year
,
How
many
years
a
mortal
man
may
live
.
When
this
is
known
,
then
to
divide
the
times
:
So
many
hours
must
I
tend
my
flock
,
So
many
hours
must
I
take
my
rest
,
So
many
hours
must
I
contemplate
,
So
many
hours
must
I
sport
myself
,
So
many
days
my
ewes
have
been
with
young
,
So
many
weeks
ere
the
poor
fools
will
ean
,
So
many
years
ere
I
shall
shear
the
fleece
;
So
minutes
,
hours
,
days
,
months
,
and
years
,
Passed
over
to
the
end
they
were
created
,
Would
bring
white
hairs
unto
a
quiet
grave
.
Ah
,
what
a
life
were
this
!
How
sweet
,
how
lovely
!
Gives
not
the
hawthorn
bush
a
sweeter
shade
To
shepherds
looking
on
their
silly
sheep
Than
doth
a
rich
embroidered
canopy
To
kings
that
fear
their
subjects’
treachery
?
O
yes
,
it
doth
,
a
thousandfold
it
doth
.
And
to
conclude
,
the
shepherd’s
homely
curds
,
His
cold
thin
drink
out
of
his
leather
bottle
,
His
wonted
sleep
under
a
fresh
tree’s
shade
,
All
which
secure
and
sweetly
he
enjoys
,
Is
far
beyond
a
prince’s
delicates
—
His
viands
sparkling
in
a
golden
cup
,
His
body
couchèd
in
a
curious
bed
—
When
care
,
mistrust
,
and
treason
waits
on
him
.
Ill
blows
the
wind
that
profits
nobody
.
This
man
,
whom
hand
to
hand
I
slew
in
fight
,
May
be
possessèd
with
some
store
of
crowns
,
And
I
,
that
haply
take
them
from
him
now
,
May
yet
ere
night
yield
both
my
life
and
them
To
some
man
else
,
as
this
dead
man
doth
me
.
Who’s
this
?
O
God
!
It
is
my
father’s
face
,
Whom
in
this
conflict
I
unwares
have
killed
.
O
heavy
times
,
begetting
such
events
!
From
London
by
the
King
was
I
pressed
forth
.
My
father
,
being
the
Earl
of
Warwick’s
man
,
Came
on
the
part
of
York
,
pressed
by
his
master
.
And
I
,
who
at
his
hands
received
my
life
,
Have
by
my
hands
of
life
bereavèd
him
.
Pardon
me
,
God
,
I
knew
not
what
I
did
;
And
pardon
,
father
,
for
I
knew
not
thee
.
My
tears
shall
wipe
away
these
bloody
marks
,
And
no
more
words
till
they
have
flowed
their
fill
.
O
piteous
spectacle
!
O
bloody
times
!
Whiles
lions
war
and
battle
for
their
dens
,
Poor
harmless
lambs
abide
their
enmity
.
Weep
,
wretched
man
.
I’ll
aid
thee
tear
for
tear
,
And
let
our
hearts
and
eyes
,
like
civil
war
,
Be
blind
with
tears
and
break
,
o’ercharged
with
grief
.
Woe
above
woe
,
grief
more
than
common
grief
!
O
,
that
my
death
would
stay
these
ruthful
deeds
!
O
pity
,
pity
,
gentle
heaven
,
pity
!
The
red
rose
and
the
white
are
on
his
face
,
The
fatal
colors
of
our
striving
houses
;
The
one
his
purple
blood
right
well
resembles
,
The
other
his
pale
cheeks
methinks
presenteth
.
Wither
one
rose
and
let
the
other
flourish
;
If
you
contend
,
a
thousand
lives
must
wither
.
Mount
you
,
my
lord
;
towards
Berwick
post
amain
.
Edward
and
Richard
,
like
a
brace
of
greyhounds
Having
the
fearful
flying
hare
in
sight
,
With
fiery
eyes
sparkling
for
very
wrath
And
bloody
steel
grasped
in
their
ireful
hands
,
Are
at
our
backs
,
and
therefore
hence
amain
.
Here
burns
my
candle
out
;
ay
,
here
it
dies
,
Which
whiles
it
lasted
gave
King
Henry
light
.
O
Lancaster
,
I
fear
thy
overthrow
More
than
my
body’s
parting
with
my
soul
!
My
love
and
fear
glued
many
friends
to
thee
;
And
now
I
fall
,
thy
tough
commixtures
melts
,
Impairing
Henry
,
strength’ning
misproud
York
;
And
whither
fly
the
gnats
but
to
the
sun
?
And
who
shines
now
but
Henry’s
enemies
?
O
Phoebus
,
hadst
thou
never
given
consent
That
Phaëton
should
check
thy
fiery
steeds
,
Thy
burning
car
never
had
scorched
the
Earth
earth
!
And
Henry
,
hadst
thou
swayed
as
kings
should
do
,
Or
as
thy
father
and
his
father
did
,
Giving
no
ground
unto
the
house
of
York
,
They
never
then
had
sprung
like
summer
flies
;
I
and
ten
thousand
in
this
luckless
realm
Had
left
no
mourning
widows
for
our
death
,
And
thou
this
day
hadst
kept
thy
chair
in
peace
.
For
what
doth
cherish
weeds
but
gentle
air
?
And
what
makes
robbers
bold
but
too
much
lenity
?
Bootless
are
plaints
,
and
cureless
are
my
wounds
;
No
way
to
fly
,
no
strength
to
hold
out
flight
.
The
foe
is
merciless
and
will
not
pity
,
For
at
their
hands
I
have
deserved
no
pity
.
The
air
hath
got
into
my
deadly
wounds
,
And
much
effuse
of
blood
doth
make
me
faint
.
Come
,
York
and
Richard
,
Warwick
and
the
rest
.
I
stabbed
your
fathers’
bosoms
;
split
my
breast
.
Now
breathe
we
,
lords
.
Good
fortune
bids
us
pause
And
smooth
the
frowns
of
war
with
peaceful
looks
.
Some
troops
pursue
the
bloody-minded
queen
That
led
calm
Henry
,
though
he
were
a
king
,
As
doth
a
sail
filled
with
a
fretting
gust
Command
an
argosy
to
stem
the
waves
.
But
think
you
,
lords
,
that
Clifford
fled
with
them
?
What
,
not
an
oath
?
Nay
,
then
,
the
world
goes
hard
When
Clifford
cannot
spare
his
friends
an
oath
.
I
know
by
that
he’s
dead
;
and
,
by
my
soul
,
If
this
right
hand
would
buy
but
two
hours’
life
That
I
in
all
despite
might
rail
at
him
,
This
hand
should
chop
it
off
,
and
with
the
issuing
blood
Stifle
the
villain
whose
unstaunchèd
thirst
York
and
young
Rutland
could
not
satisfy
.
Ay
,
but
he’s
dead
.
Off
with
the
traitor’s
head
,
And
rear
it
in
the
place
your
father’s
stands
.
And
now
to
London
with
triumphant
march
,
There
to
be
crownèd
England’s
royal
king
,
From
whence
shall
Warwick
cut
the
sea
to
France
And
ask
the
Lady
Bona
for
thy
queen
;
So
shalt
thou
sinew
both
these
lands
together
,
And
having
France
thy
friend
,
thou
shalt
not
dread
The
scattered
foe
that
hopes
to
rise
again
;
For
though
they
cannot
greatly
sting
to
hurt
,
Yet
look
to
have
them
buzz
to
offend
thine
ears
.
First
will
I
see
the
coronation
,
And
then
to
Brittany
I’ll
cross
the
sea
To
effect
this
marriage
,
so
it
please
my
lord
.
Why
,
am
I
dead
?
Do
I
not
breathe
a
man
?
Ah
,
simple
men
,
you
know
not
what
you
swear
.
Look
as
I
blow
this
feather
from
my
face
And
as
the
air
blows
it
to
me
again
,
Obeying
with
my
wind
when
I
do
blow
And
yielding
to
another
when
it
blows
,
Commanded
always
by
the
greater
gust
,
Such
is
the
lightness
of
you
common
men
.
But
do
not
break
your
oaths
,
for
of
that
sin
My
mild
entreaty
shall
not
make
you
guilty
.
Go
where
you
will
,
the
King
shall
be
commanded
,
And
be
you
kings
:
command
,
and
I’ll
obey
.
Her
looks
doth
argue
her
replete
with
modesty
;
Her
words
doth
show
her
wit
incomparable
;
All
her
perfections
challenge
sovereignty
.
One
way
or
other
,
she
is
for
a
king
,
And
she
shall
be
my
love
or
else
my
queen
.
—
Say
that
King
Edward
take
thee
for
his
queen
?
The
widow
likes
it
not
,
for
she
looks
very
sad
.
Ay
,
Edward
will
use
women
honorably
!
Would
he
were
wasted
—
marrow
,
bones
,
and
all
—
That
from
his
loins
no
hopeful
branch
may
spring
To
cross
me
from
the
golden
time
I
look
for
.
And
yet
,
between
my
soul’s
desire
and
me
,
The
lustful
Edward’s
title
burièd
,
Is
Clarence
,
Henry
,
and
his
son
,
young
Edward
,
And
all
the
unlooked-for
issue
of
their
bodies
To
take
their
rooms
ere
I
can
place
myself
.
A
cold
premeditation
for
my
purpose
.
Why
,
then
,
I
do
but
dream
on
sovereignty
Like
one
that
stands
upon
a
promontory
And
spies
a
far-off
shore
where
he
would
tread
,
Wishing
his
foot
were
equal
with
his
eye
,
And
chides
the
sea
that
sunders
him
from
thence
,
Saying
he’ll
lade
it
dry
to
have
his
way
.
So
do
I
wish
the
crown
,
being
so
far
off
,
And
so
I
chide
the
means
that
keeps
me
from
it
,
And
so
,
I
say
,
I’ll
cut
the
causes
off
,
Flattering
me
with
impossibilities
.
My
eye’s
too
quick
,
my
heart
o’erweens
too
much
,
Unless
my
hand
and
strength
could
equal
them
.
Well
,
say
there
is
no
kingdom
then
for
Richard
,
What
other
pleasure
can
the
world
afford
?
I’ll
make
my
heaven
in
a
lady’s
lap
And
deck
my
body
in
gay
ornaments
,
And
’witch
sweet
ladies
with
my
words
and
looks
.
O
miserable
thought
,
and
more
unlikely
Than
to
accomplish
twenty
golden
crowns
!
Why
,
Love
forswore
me
in
my
mother’s
womb
,
And
,
for
I
should
not
deal
in
her
soft
laws
,
She
did
corrupt
frail
Nature
with
some
bribe
To
shrink
mine
arm
up
like
a
withered
shrub
;
To
make
an
envious
mountain
on
my
back
,
Where
sits
Deformity
to
mock
my
body
;
To
shape
my
legs
of
an
unequal
size
;
To
disproportion
me
in
every
part
,
Like
to
a
chaos
,
or
an
unlicked
bear-whelp
,
That
carries
no
impression
like
the
dam
.
And
am
I
then
a
man
to
be
beloved
?
O
monstrous
fault
to
harbor
such
a
thought
!
Then
,
since
this
Earth
earth
affords
no
joy
to
me
But
to
command
,
to
check
,
to
o’erbear
such
As
are
of
better
person
than
myself
,
I’ll
make
my
heaven
to
dream
upon
the
crown
,
And
,
whiles
I
live
,
t’
account
this
world
but
hell
Until
my
misshaped
trunk
that
bears
this
head
Be
round
impalèd
with
a
glorious
crown
.
And
yet
I
know
not
how
to
get
the
crown
,
For
many
lives
stand
between
me
and
home
;
And
I
,
like
one
lost
in
a
thorny
wood
,
That
rents
the
thorns
and
is
rent
with
the
thorns
,
Seeking
a
way
and
straying
from
the
way
,
Not
knowing
how
to
find
the
open
air
,
But
toiling
desperately
to
find
it
out
,
Torment
myself
to
catch
the
English
crown
.
And
from
that
torment
I
will
free
myself
Or
hew
my
way
out
with
a
bloody
axe
.
Why
,
I
can
smile
,
and
murder
whiles
I
smile
,
And
cry
Content
to
that
which
grieves
my
heart
,
And
wet
my
cheeks
with
artificial
tears
,
And
frame
my
face
to
all
occasions
.
I’ll
drown
more
sailors
than
the
mermaid
shall
;
I’ll
slay
more
gazers
than
the
basilisk
;
I’ll
play
the
orator
as
well
as
Nestor
,
Deceive
more
slyly
than
Ulysses
could
,
And
,
like
a
Sinon
,
take
another
Troy
.
I
can
add
colors
to
the
chameleon
,
Change
shapes
with
Proteus
for
advantages
,
And
set
the
murderous
Machiavel
to
school
.
Can
I
do
this
and
cannot
get
a
crown
?
Tut
,
were
it
farther
off
,
I’ll
pluck
it
down
.
King
Lewis
and
Lady
Bona
,
hear
me
speak
Before
you
answer
Warwick
.
His
demand
Springs
not
from
Edward’s
well-meant
honest
love
,
But
from
deceit
,
bred
by
necessity
;
For
how
can
tyrants
safely
govern
home
Unless
abroad
they
purchase
great
alliance
?
To
prove
him
tyrant
,
this
reason
may
suffice
:
That
Henry
liveth
still
;
but
were
he
dead
,
Yet
here
Prince
Edward
stands
,
King
Henry’s
son
.
Look
,
therefore
,
Lewis
,
that
by
this
league
and
marriage
Thou
draw
not
on
thy
danger
and
dishonor
;
For
though
usurpers
sway
the
rule
awhile
,
Yet
heav’ns
are
just
,
and
time
suppresseth
wrongs
.
Clarence
and
Somerset
both
gone
to
Warwick
?
Yet
am
I
armed
against
the
worst
can
happen
,
And
haste
is
needful
in
this
desp’rate
case
.
Pembroke
and
Stafford
,
you
in
our
behalf
Go
levy
men
and
make
prepare
for
war
.
They
are
already
,
or
quickly
will
be
,
landed
.
Myself
in
person
will
straight
follow
you
.
But
ere
I
go
,
Hastings
and
Montague
,
Resolve
my
doubt
:
you
twain
,
of
all
the
rest
,
Are
near
to
Warwick
by
blood
and
by
alliance
.
Tell
me
if
you
love
Warwick
more
than
me
.
If
it
be
so
,
then
both
depart
to
him
.
I
rather
wish
you
foes
than
hollow
friends
.
But
if
you
mind
to
hold
your
true
obedience
,
Give
me
assurance
with
some
friendly
vow
,
That
I
may
never
have
you
in
suspect
.
Till
then
fair
hope
must
hinder
life’s
decay
;
And
I
the
rather
wean
me
from
despair
For
love
of
Edward’s
offspring
in
my
womb
.
This
is
it
that
makes
me
bridle
passion
And
bear
with
mildness
my
misfortune’s
cross
.
Ay
,
ay
,
for
this
I
draw
in
many
a
tear
And
stop
the
rising
of
blood-sucking
sighs
,
Lest
with
my
sighs
or
tears
I
blast
or
drown
King
Edward’s
fruit
,
true
heir
to
th’
English
crown
.
Come
hither
,
England’s
hope
.
If
secret
powers
Suggest
but
truth
to
my
divining
thoughts
,
This
pretty
lad
will
prove
our
country’s
bliss
.
His
looks
are
full
of
peaceful
majesty
,
His
head
by
nature
framed
to
wear
a
crown
,
His
hand
to
wield
a
scepter
,
and
himself
Likely
in
time
to
bless
a
regal
throne
.
Make
much
of
him
,
my
lords
,
for
this
is
he
Must
help
you
more
than
you
are
hurt
by
me
.
Who
should
that
be
?
Belike
unlooked-for
friends
.
Sail
how
thou
canst
,
have
wind
and
tide
thy
friend
,
This
hand
,
fast
wound
about
thy
coal-black
coalblack
hair
,
Shall
,
whiles
thy
head
is
warm
and
new
cut
off
,
Write
in
the
dust
this
sentence
with
thy
blood
:
Wind-changing
Warwick
now
can
change
no
more
.
Thou
and
thy
brother
both
shall
buy
this
treason
Even
with
the
dearest
blood
your
bodies
bear
!
Father
of
Warwick
,
know
you
what
this
means
?
Look
,
here
I
throw
my
infamy
at
thee
.
I
will
not
ruinate
my
father’s
house
,
Who
gave
his
blood
to
lime
the
stones
together
And
set
up
Lancaster
.
Why
,
trowest
thou
,
Warwick
,
That
Clarence
is
so
harsh
,
so
blunt
,
unnatural
,
To
bend
the
fatal
instruments
of
war
Against
his
brother
and
his
lawful
king
?
Perhaps
thou
wilt
object
my
holy
oath
.
To
keep
that
oath
were
more
impiety
Than
Jephthah
when
he
sacrificed
his
daughter
.
I
am
so
sorry
for
my
trespass
made
That
,
to
deserve
well
at
my
brother’s
hands
,
I
here
proclaim
myself
thy
mortal
foe
,
With
resolution
,
wheresoe’er
I
meet
thee
—
As
I
will
meet
thee
if
thou
stir
abroad
—
To
plague
thee
for
thy
foul
misleading
me
.
And
so
,
proud-hearted
Warwick
,
I
defy
thee
And
to
my
brother
turn
my
blushing
cheeks
.
—
Pardon
me
,
Edward
,
I
will
make
amends
.
—
And
,
Richard
,
do
not
frown
upon
my
faults
,
For
I
will
henceforth
be
no
more
unconstant
.
Ah
,
who
is
nigh
?
Come
to
me
,
friend
or
foe
,
And
tell
me
who
is
victor
,
York
or
Warwick
?
Why
ask
I
that
?
My
mangled
body
shows
,
My
blood
,
my
want
of
strength
,
my
sick
heart
shows
That
I
must
yield
my
body
to
the
earth
And
,
by
my
fall
,
the
conquest
to
my
foe
.
Thus
yields
the
cedar
to
the
axe’s
edge
,
Whose
arms
gave
shelter
to
the
princely
eagle
,
Under
whose
shade
the
ramping
lion
slept
,
Whose
top
branch
overpeered
Jove’s
spreading
tree
And
kept
low
shrubs
from
winter’s
pow’rful
wind
.
These
eyes
,
that
now
are
dimmed
with
death’s
black
veil
,
Have
been
as
piercing
as
the
midday
sun
To
search
the
secret
treasons
of
the
world
.
The
wrinkles
in
my
brows
,
now
filled
with
blood
,
Were
likened
oft
to
kingly
sepulchers
,
For
who
lived
king
but
I
could
dig
his
grave
?
And
who
durst
smile
when
Warwick
bent
his
brow
?
Lo
,
now
my
glory
smeared
in
dust
and
blood
!
My
parks
,
my
walks
,
my
manors
that
I
had
Even
now
forsake
me
;
and
of
all
my
lands
Is
nothing
left
me
but
my
body’s
length
.
Why
,
what
is
pomp
,
rule
,
reign
,
but
earth
and
dust
?
And
live
we
how
we
can
,
yet
die
we
must
.
Why
,
then
,
I
would
not
fly
.
Ah
,
Montague
,
If
thou
be
there
,
sweet
brother
,
take
my
hand
And
with
thy
lips
keep
in
my
soul
awhile
.
Thou
lov’st
me
not
,
for
,
brother
,
if
thou
didst
,
Thy
tears
would
wash
this
cold
congealèd
blood
That
glues
my
lips
and
will
not
let
me
speak
.
Come
quickly
,
Montague
,
or
I
am
dead
.
Great
lords
,
wise
men
ne’er
sit
and
wail
their
loss
But
cheerly
seek
how
to
redress
their
harms
.
What
though
the
mast
be
now
blown
overboard
,
The
cable
broke
,
the
holding-anchor
lost
,
And
half
our
sailors
swallowed
in
the
flood
?
Yet
lives
our
pilot
still
.
Is
’t
meet
that
he
Should
leave
the
helm
and
,
like
a
fearful
lad
,
With
tearful
eyes
add
water
to
the
sea
And
give
more
strength
to
that
which
hath
too
much
,
Whiles
in
his
moan
the
ship
splits
on
the
rock
,
Which
industry
and
courage
might
have
saved
?
Ah
,
what
a
shame
,
ah
,
what
a
fault
were
this
!
Say
Warwick
was
our
anchor
;
what
of
that
?
And
Montague
our
topmast
;
what
of
him
?
Our
slaughtered
friends
the
tackles
;
what
of
these
?
Why
,
is
not
Oxford
here
another
anchor
?
And
Somerset
another
goodly
mast
?
The
friends
of
France
our
shrouds
and
tacklings
?
And
,
though
unskillful
,
why
not
Ned
and
I
For
once
allowed
the
skillful
pilot’s
charge
?
We
will
not
from
the
helm
to
sit
and
weep
,
But
keep
our
course
,
though
the
rough
wind
say
no
,
From
shelves
and
rocks
that
threaten
us
with
wrack
.
As
good
to
chide
the
waves
as
speak
them
fair
.
And
what
is
Edward
but
a
ruthless
sea
?
What
Clarence
but
a
quicksand
of
deceit
?
And
Richard
but
a
ragged
fatal
rock
—
All
these
the
enemies
to
our
poor
bark
?
Say
you
can
swim
:
alas
,
’tis
but
awhile
;
Tread
on
the
sand
:
why
,
there
you
quickly
sink
;
Bestride
the
rock
:
the
tide
will
wash
you
off
Or
else
you
famish
;
that’s
a
threefold
death
.
This
speak
I
,
lords
,
to
let
you
understand
,
If
case
some
one
of
you
would
fly
from
us
,
That
there’s
no
hoped-for
mercy
with
the
brothers
More
than
with
ruthless
waves
,
with
sands
and
rocks
.
Why
,
courage
then
!
What
cannot
be
avoided
’Twere
childish
weakness
to
lament
or
fear
.
O
Ned
,
sweet
Ned
,
speak
to
thy
mother
,
boy
.
Canst
thou
not
speak
?
O
traitors
,
murderers
!
They
that
stabbed
Caesar
shed
no
blood
at
all
,
Did
not
offend
,
nor
were
not
worthy
blame
,
If
this
foul
deed
were
by
to
equal
it
.
He
was
a
man
;
this
,
in
respect
,
a
child
,
And
men
ne’er
spend
their
fury
on
a
child
.
What’s
worse
than
murderer
,
that
I
may
name
it
?
No
,
no
,
my
heart
will
burst
an
if
I
speak
,
And
I
will
speak
,
that
so
my
heart
may
burst
.
Butchers
and
villains
,
bloody
cannibals
,
How
sweet
a
plant
have
you
untimely
cropped
!
You
have
no
children
,
butchers
.
If
you
had
,
The
thought
of
them
would
have
stirred
up
remorse
.
But
if
you
ever
chance
to
have
a
child
,
Look
in
his
youth
to
have
him
so
cut
off
As
,
deathsmen
,
you
have
rid
this
sweet
young
prince
.
Ay
,
but
thou
usest
to
forswear
thyself
.
’Twas
sin
before
,
but
now
’tis
charity
.
What
,
wilt
thou
not
?
Where
is
that
devil’s
butcher
,
Richard
,
Hard-favored
Richard
?
Richard
,
where
art
thou
?
Thou
art
not
here
.
Murder
is
thy
alms-deed
;
Petitioners
for
blood
thou
ne’er
putt’st
back
.
To
London
all
in
post
,
and
,
as
I
guess
,
To
make
a
bloody
supper
in
the
Tower
.
What
,
will
the
aspiring
blood
of
Lancaster
Sink
in
the
ground
?
I
thought
it
would
have
mounted
.
See
how
my
sword
weeps
for
the
poor
king’s
death
.
O
,
may
such
purple
tears
be
always
shed
From
those
that
wish
the
downfall
of
our
house
.
If
any
spark
of
life
be
yet
remaining
,
Down
,
down
to
hell
,
and
say
I
sent
thee
thither
—
I
that
have
neither
pity
,
love
,
nor
fear
.
Indeed
,
’tis
true
that
Henry
told
me
of
,
For
I
have
often
heard
my
mother
say
I
came
into
the
world
with
my
legs
forward
.
Had
I
not
reason
,
think
you
,
to
make
haste
And
seek
their
ruin
that
usurped
our
right
?
The
midwife
wondered
,
and
the
women
cried
O
Jesus
bless
us
,
he
is
born
with
teeth
!
And
so
I
was
,
which
plainly
signified
That
I
should
snarl
,
and
bite
,
and
play
the
dog
.
Then
,
since
the
heavens
have
shaped
my
body
so
,
Let
hell
make
crook’d
my
mind
to
answer
it
.
I
have
no
brother
,
I
am
like
no
brother
;
And
this
word
love
,
which
graybeards
call
divine
,
Be
resident
in
men
like
one
another
And
not
in
me
.
I
am
myself
alone
.
Clarence
,
beware
;
thou
keep’st
me
from
the
light
,
But
I
will
sort
a
pitchy
day
for
thee
;
For
I
will
buzz
abroad
such
prophecies
That
Edward
shall
be
fearful
of
his
life
;
And
then
to
purge
his
fear
,
I’ll
be
thy
death
.
King
Henry
and
the
Prince
his
son
are
gone
.
Clarence
,
thy
turn
is
next
,
and
then
the
rest
,
Counting
myself
but
bad
till
I
be
best
.
I’ll
throw
thy
body
in
another
room
,
And
triumph
,
Henry
,
in
thy
day
of
doom
.
Once
more
we
sit
in
England’s
royal
throne
,
Repurchased
with
the
blood
of
enemies
.
What
valiant
foemen
,
like
to
autumn’s
corn
,
Have
we
mowed
down
in
tops
of
all
their
pride
!
Three
dukes
of
Somerset
,
threefold
renowned
For
hardy
and
undoubted
champions
;
Two
Cliffords
,
as
the
father
and
the
son
;
And
two
Northumberlands
;
two
braver
men
Ne’er
spurred
their
coursers
at
the
trumpet’s
sound
.
With
them
the
two
brave
bears
,
Warwick
and
Montague
,
That
in
their
chains
fettered
the
kingly
lion
And
made
the
forest
tremble
when
they
roared
.
Thus
have
we
swept
suspicion
from
our
seat
And
made
our
footstool
of
security
.
—
Come
hither
,
Bess
,
and
let
me
kiss
my
boy
.
—
Young
Ned
,
for
thee
,
thine
uncles
and
myself
Have
in
our
armors
watched
the
winter’s
night
,
Went
all
afoot
in
summer’s
scalding
heat
,
That
thou
mightst
repossess
the
crown
in
peace
,
And
of
our
labors
thou
shalt
reap
the
gain
.
I’ll
blast
his
harvest
,
if
your
head
were
laid
;
For
yet
I
am
not
looked
on
in
the
world
.
This
shoulder
was
ordained
so
thick
to
heave
,
And
heave
it
shall
some
weight
or
break
my
back
.
Work
thou
the
way
and
that
shalt
execute
.
Wherefore
rejoice
?
What
conquest
brings
he
home
?
What
tributaries
follow
him
to
Rome
To
grace
in
captive
bonds
his
chariot
wheels
?
You
blocks
,
you
stones
,
you
worse
than
senseless
things
!
O
you
hard
hearts
,
you
cruel
men
of
Rome
,
Knew
you
not
Pompey
?
Many
a
time
and
oft
Have
you
climbed
up
to
walls
and
battlements
,
To
towers
and
windows
,
yea
,
to
chimney
tops
,
Your
infants
in
your
arms
,
and
there
have
sat
The
livelong
day
,
with
patient
expectation
,
To
see
great
Pompey
pass
the
streets
of
Rome
.
And
when
you
saw
his
chariot
but
appear
,
Have
you
not
made
an
universal
shout
,
That
Tiber
trembled
underneath
her
banks
To
hear
the
replication
of
your
sounds
Made
in
her
concave
shores
?
And
do
you
now
put
on
your
best
attire
?
And
do
you
now
cull
out
a
holiday
?
And
do
you
now
strew
flowers
in
his
way
That
comes
in
triumph
over
Pompey’s
blood
?
Be
gone
!
Run
to
your
houses
,
fall
upon
your
knees
,
Pray
to
the
gods
to
intermit
the
plague
That
needs
must
light
on
this
ingratitude
.
Fellow
,
come
from
the
throng
.
Look
upon
Caesar
.
Cassius
,
Be
not
deceived
.
If
I
have
veiled
my
look
,
I
turn
the
trouble
of
my
countenance
Merely
upon
myself
.
Vexèd
I
am
Of
late
with
passions
of
some
difference
,
Conceptions
only
proper
to
myself
,
Which
give
some
soil
,
perhaps
,
to
my
behaviors
.
But
let
not
therefore
my
good
friends
be
grieved
(
Among
which
number
,
Cassius
,
be
you
one
)
Nor
construe
any
further
my
neglect
Than
that
poor
Brutus
,
with
himself
at
war
,
Forgets
the
shows
of
love
to
other
men
.
I
would
not
,
Cassius
,
yet
I
love
him
well
.
But
wherefore
do
you
hold
me
here
so
long
?
What
is
it
that
you
would
impart
to
me
?
If
it
be
aught
toward
the
general
good
,
Set
honor
in
one
eye
and
death
i’
th’
other
And
I
will
look
on
both
indifferently
;
For
let
the
gods
so
speed
me
as
I
love
The
name
of
honor
more
than
I
fear
death
.
I
know
that
virtue
to
be
in
you
,
Brutus
,
As
well
as
I
do
know
your
outward
favor
.
Well
,
honor
is
the
subject
of
my
story
.
I
cannot
tell
what
you
and
other
men
Think
of
this
life
;
but
,
for
my
single
self
,
I
had
as
lief
not
be
as
live
to
be
In
awe
of
such
a
thing
as
I
myself
.
I
was
born
free
as
Caesar
;
so
were
you
;
We
both
have
fed
as
well
,
and
we
can
both
Endure
the
winter’s
cold
as
well
as
he
.
For
once
,
upon
a
raw
and
gusty
day
,
The
troubled
Tiber
chafing
with
her
shores
,
Caesar
said
to
me
Dar’st
thou
,
Cassius
,
now
Leap
in
with
me
into
this
angry
flood
And
swim
to
yonder
point
?
Upon
the
word
,
Accoutered
as
I
was
,
I
plungèd
in
And
bade
him
follow
;
so
indeed
he
did
.
The
torrent
roared
,
and
we
did
buffet
it
With
lusty
sinews
,
throwing
it
aside
And
stemming
it
with
hearts
of
controversy
.
But
ere
we
could
arrive
the
point
proposed
,
Caesar
cried
Help
me
,
Cassius
,
or
I
sink
!
I
,
as
Aeneas
,
our
great
ancestor
,
Did
from
the
flames
of
Troy
upon
his
shoulder
The
old
Anchises
bear
,
so
from
the
waves
of
Tiber
Did
I
the
tired
Caesar
.
And
this
man
Is
now
become
a
god
,
and
Cassius
is
A
wretched
creature
and
must
bend
his
body
If
Caesar
carelessly
but
nod
on
him
.
He
had
a
fever
when
he
was
in
Spain
,
And
when
the
fit
was
on
him
,
I
did
mark
How
he
did
shake
.
’Tis
true
,
this
god
did
shake
.
His
coward
lips
did
from
their
color
fly
,
And
that
same
eye
whose
bend
doth
awe
the
world
Did
lose
his
luster
.
I
did
hear
him
groan
.
Ay
,
and
that
tongue
of
his
that
bade
the
Romans
Mark
him
and
write
his
speeches
in
their
books
,
Alas
,
it
cried
Give
me
some
drink
,
Titinius
As
a
sick
girl
.
You
gods
,
it
doth
amaze
me
A
man
of
such
a
feeble
temper
should
So
get
the
start
of
the
majestic
world
And
bear
the
palm
alone
.
Why
,
man
,
he
doth
bestride
the
narrow
world
Like
a
Colossus
,
and
we
petty
men
Walk
under
his
huge
legs
and
peep
about
To
find
ourselves
dishonorable
graves
.
Men
at
some
time
are
masters
of
their
fates
.
The
fault
,
dear
Brutus
,
is
not
in
our
stars
,
But
in
ourselves
,
that
we
are
underlings
.
Brutus
and
Caesar
—
what
should
be
in
that
Caesar
?
Why
should
that
name
be
sounded
more
than
yours
?
Write
them
together
,
yours
is
as
fair
a
name
;
Sound
them
,
it
doth
become
the
mouth
as
well
;
Weigh
them
,
it
is
as
heavy
;
conjure
with
’em
,
Brutus
will
start
a
spirit
as
soon
as
Caesar
.
Now
,
in
the
names
of
all
the
gods
at
once
,
Upon
what
meat
doth
this
our
Caesar
feed
That
he
is
grown
so
great
?
Age
,
thou
art
shamed
!
Rome
,
thou
hast
lost
the
breed
of
noble
bloods
!
When
went
there
by
an
age
,
since
the
great
flood
,
But
it
was
famed
with
more
than
with
one
man
?
When
could
they
say
,
till
now
,
that
talked
of
Rome
,
That
her
wide
walks
encompassed
but
one
man
?
Now
is
it
Rome
indeed
,
and
room
enough
When
there
is
in
it
but
one
only
man
.
O
,
you
and
I
have
heard
our
fathers
say
There
was
a
Brutus
once
that
would
have
brooked
Th’
eternal
devil
to
keep
his
state
in
Rome
As
easily
as
a
king
.
I
will
do
so
.
But
look
you
,
Cassius
,
The
angry
spot
doth
glow
on
Caesar’s
brow
,
And
all
the
rest
look
like
a
chidden
train
.
Calphurnia’s
cheek
is
pale
,
and
Cicero
Looks
with
such
ferret
and
such
fiery
eyes
As
we
have
seen
him
in
the
Capitol
,
Being
crossed
in
conference
by
some
senators
.
Let
me
have
men
about
me
that
are
fat
,
Sleek-headed
men
,
and
such
as
sleep
a-nights
.
Yond
Cassius
has
a
lean
and
hungry
look
.
He
thinks
too
much
.
Such
men
are
dangerous
.
Would
he
were
fatter
!
But
I
fear
him
not
.
Yet
if
my
name
were
liable
to
fear
,
I
do
not
know
the
man
I
should
avoid
So
soon
as
that
spare
Cassius
.
He
reads
much
,
He
is
a
great
observer
,
and
he
looks
Quite
through
the
deeds
of
men
.
He
loves
no
plays
,
As
thou
dost
,
Antony
;
he
hears
no
music
;
Seldom
he
smiles
,
and
smiles
in
such
a
sort
As
if
he
mocked
himself
and
scorned
his
spirit
That
could
be
moved
to
smile
at
anything
.
Such
men
as
he
be
never
at
heart’s
ease
Whiles
they
behold
a
greater
than
themselves
,
And
therefore
are
they
very
dangerous
.
I
rather
tell
thee
what
is
to
be
feared
Than
what
I
fear
;
for
always
I
am
Caesar
.
Come
on
my
right
hand
,
for
this
ear
is
deaf
,
And
tell
me
truly
what
thou
think’st
of
him
.
Ay
,
Casca
.
Tell
us
what
hath
chanced
today
That
Caesar
looks
so
sad
.
Nay
,
an
I
tell
you
that
,
I’ll
ne’er
look
you
i’
th’
face
again
.
But
those
that
understood
him
smiled
at
one
another
and
shook
their
heads
.
But
for
mine
own
part
,
it
was
Greek
to
me
.
I
could
tell
you
more
news
too
:
Marullus
and
Flavius
,
for
pulling
scarves
off
Caesar’s
images
,
are
put
to
silence
.
Fare
you
well
.
There
was
more
foolery
yet
,
if
I
could
remember
it
.
You
are
dull
,
Casca
,
and
those
sparks
of
life
That
should
be
in
a
Roman
you
do
want
,
Or
else
you
use
not
.
You
look
pale
,
and
gaze
,
And
put
on
fear
,
and
cast
yourself
in
wonder
,
To
see
the
strange
impatience
of
the
heavens
.
But
if
you
would
consider
the
true
cause
Why
all
these
fires
,
why
all
these
gliding
ghosts
,
Why
birds
and
beasts
from
quality
and
kind
,
Why
old
men
,
fools
,
and
children
calculate
,
Why
all
these
things
change
from
their
ordinance
,
Their
natures
,
and
preformèd
faculties
,
To
monstrous
quality
—
why
,
you
shall
find
That
heaven
hath
infused
them
with
these
spirits
To
make
them
instruments
of
fear
and
warning
Unto
some
monstrous
state
.
Now
could
I
,
Casca
,
name
to
thee
a
man
Most
like
this
dreadful
night
,
That
thunders
,
lightens
,
opens
graves
,
and
roars
As
doth
the
lion
in
the
Capitol
;
A
man
no
mightier
than
thyself
or
me
In
personal
action
,
yet
prodigious
grown
,
And
fearful
,
as
these
strange
eruptions
are
.
There’s
a
bargain
made
.
Now
know
you
,
Casca
,
I
have
moved
already
Some
certain
of
the
noblest-minded
Romans
To
undergo
with
me
an
enterprise
Of
honorable-dangerous
consequence
.
And
I
do
know
by
this
they
stay
for
me
In
Pompey’s
Porch
.
For
now
,
this
fearful
night
,
There
is
no
stir
or
walking
in
the
streets
;
And
the
complexion
of
the
element
In
favor
’s
like
the
work
we
have
in
hand
,
Most
bloody
,
fiery
,
and
most
terrible
.
Be
you
content
.
Good
Cinna
,
take
this
paper
,
And
look
you
lay
it
in
the
Praetor’s
chair
,
Where
Brutus
may
but
find
it
;
and
throw
this
In
at
his
window
;
set
this
up
with
wax
Upon
old
Brutus’
statue
.
All
this
done
,
Repair
to
Pompey’s
Porch
,
where
you
shall
find
us
.
Is
Decius
Brutus
and
Trebonius
there
?
It
must
be
by
his
death
.
And
for
my
part
I
know
no
personal
cause
to
spurn
at
him
,
But
for
the
general
.
He
would
be
crowned
:
How
that
might
change
his
nature
,
there’s
the
question
.
It
is
the
bright
day
that
brings
forth
the
adder
,
And
that
craves
wary
walking
.
Crown
him
that
,
And
then
I
grant
we
put
a
sting
in
him
That
at
his
will
he
may
do
danger
with
.
Th’
abuse
of
greatness
is
when
it
disjoins
Remorse
from
power
.
And
,
to
speak
truth
of
Caesar
,
I
have
not
known
when
his
affections
swayed
More
than
his
reason
.
But
’tis
a
common
proof
That
lowliness
is
young
ambition’s
ladder
,
Whereto
the
climber-upward
turns
his
face
;
But
,
when
he
once
attains
the
upmost
round
,
He
then
unto
the
ladder
turns
his
back
,
Looks
in
the
clouds
,
scorning
the
base
degrees
By
which
he
did
ascend
.
So
Caesar
may
.
Then
,
lest
he
may
,
prevent
.
And
since
the
quarrel
Will
bear
no
color
for
the
thing
he
is
,
Fashion
it
thus
:
that
what
he
is
,
augmented
,
Would
run
to
these
and
these
extremities
.
And
therefore
think
him
as
a
serpent’s
egg
,
Which
,
hatched
,
would
,
as
his
kind
,
grow
mischievous
,
And
kill
him
in
the
shell
.
Look
in
the
calendar
,
and
bring
me
word
.
No
,
not
an
oath
.
If
not
the
face
of
men
,
The
sufferance
of
our
souls
,
the
time’s
abuse
—
If
these
be
motives
weak
,
break
off
betimes
,
And
every
man
hence
to
his
idle
bed
.
So
let
high-sighted
tyranny
range
on
Till
each
man
drop
by
lottery
.
But
if
these
—
As
I
am
sure
they
do
—
bear
fire
enough
To
kindle
cowards
and
to
steel
with
valor
The
melting
spirits
of
women
,
then
,
countrymen
,
What
need
we
any
spur
but
our
own
cause
To
prick
us
to
redress
?
What
other
bond
Than
secret
Romans
that
have
spoke
the
word
And
will
not
palter
?
And
what
other
oath
Than
honesty
to
honesty
engaged
That
this
shall
be
or
we
will
fall
for
it
?
Swear
priests
and
cowards
and
men
cautelous
,
Old
feeble
carrions
,
and
such
suffering
souls
That
welcome
wrongs
;
unto
bad
causes
swear
Such
creatures
as
men
doubt
;
but
do
not
stain
The
even
virtue
of
our
enterprise
,
Nor
th’
insuppressive
mettle
of
our
spirits
,
To
think
that
or
our
cause
or
our
performance
Did
need
an
oath
,
when
every
drop
of
blood
That
every
Roman
bears
,
and
nobly
bears
,
Is
guilty
of
a
several
bastardy
If
he
do
break
the
smallest
particle
Of
any
promise
that
hath
passed
from
him
.
Our
course
will
seem
too
bloody
,
Caius
Cassius
,
To
cut
the
head
off
and
then
hack
the
limbs
,
Like
wrath
in
death
and
envy
afterwards
;
For
Antony
is
but
a
limb
of
Caesar
.
Let’s
be
sacrificers
,
but
not
butchers
,
Caius
.
We
all
stand
up
against
the
spirit
of
Caesar
,
And
in
the
spirit
of
men
there
is
no
blood
.
O
,
that
we
then
could
come
by
Caesar’s
spirit
And
not
dismember
Caesar
!
But
,
alas
,
Caesar
must
bleed
for
it
.
And
,
gentle
friends
,
Let’s
kill
him
boldly
,
but
not
wrathfully
.
Let’s
carve
him
as
a
dish
fit
for
the
gods
,
Not
hew
him
as
a
carcass
fit
for
hounds
.
And
let
our
hearts
,
as
subtle
masters
do
,
Stir
up
their
servants
to
an
act
of
rage
And
after
seem
to
chide
’em
.
This
shall
make
Our
purpose
necessary
and
not
envious
;
Which
so
appearing
to
the
common
eyes
,
We
shall
be
called
purgers
,
not
murderers
.
And
for
Mark
Antony
,
think
not
of
him
,
For
he
can
do
no
more
than
Caesar’s
arm
When
Caesar’s
head
is
off
.
Good
gentlemen
,
look
fresh
and
merrily
.
Let
not
our
looks
put
on
our
purposes
,
But
bear
it
,
as
our
Roman
actors
do
,
With
untired
spirits
and
formal
constancy
.
And
so
good
morrow
to
you
every
one
.
Boy
!
Lucius
!
—
Fast
asleep
?
It
is
no
matter
.
Enjoy
the
honey-heavy
dew
of
slumber
.
Thou
hast
no
figures
nor
no
fantasies
Which
busy
care
draws
in
the
brains
of
men
.
Therefore
thou
sleep’st
so
sound
.
Nor
for
yours
neither
.
You’ve
ungently
,
Brutus
,
Stole
from
my
bed
.
And
yesternight
at
supper
You
suddenly
arose
and
walked
about
,
Musing
and
sighing
,
with
your
arms
across
,
And
when
I
asked
you
what
the
matter
was
,
You
stared
upon
me
with
ungentle
looks
.
I
urged
you
further
;
then
you
scratched
your
head
And
too
impatiently
stamped
with
your
foot
.
Yet
I
insisted
;
yet
you
answered
not
,
But
with
an
angry
wafture
of
your
hand
Gave
sign
for
me
to
leave
you
.
So
I
did
,
Fearing
to
strengthen
that
impatience
Which
seemed
too
much
enkindled
,
and
withal
Hoping
it
was
but
an
effect
of
humor
,
Which
sometime
hath
his
hour
with
every
man
.
It
will
not
let
you
eat
nor
talk
nor
sleep
,
And
could
it
work
so
much
upon
your
shape
As
it
hath
much
prevailed
on
your
condition
,
I
should
not
know
you
Brutus
.
Dear
my
lord
,
Make
me
acquainted
with
your
cause
of
grief
.
Caesar
shall
forth
.
The
things
that
threatened
me
Ne’er
looked
but
on
my
back
.
When
they
shall
see
The
face
of
Caesar
,
they
are
vanishèd
.
Caesar
,
I
never
stood
on
ceremonies
,
Yet
now
they
fright
me
.
There
is
one
within
,
Besides
the
things
that
we
have
heard
and
seen
,
Recounts
most
horrid
sights
seen
by
the
watch
.
A
lioness
hath
whelpèd
in
the
streets
,
And
graves
have
yawned
and
yielded
up
their
dead
.
Fierce
fiery
warriors
fought
upon
the
clouds
In
ranks
and
squadrons
and
right
form
of
war
,
Which
drizzled
blood
upon
the
Capitol
.
The
noise
of
battle
hurtled
in
the
air
,
Horses
did
neigh
,
and
dying
men
did
groan
,
And
ghosts
did
shriek
and
squeal
about
the
streets
.
O
Caesar
,
these
things
are
beyond
all
use
,
And
I
do
fear
them
.
The
cause
is
in
my
will
.
I
will
not
come
.
That
is
enough
to
satisfy
the
Senate
.
But
for
your
private
satisfaction
,
Because
I
love
you
,
I
will
let
you
know
.
Calphurnia
here
,
my
wife
,
stays
me
at
home
.
She
dreamt
tonight
she
saw
my
statue
,
Which
,
like
a
fountain
with
an
hundred
spouts
,
Did
run
pure
blood
;
and
many
lusty
Romans
Came
smiling
and
did
bathe
their
hands
in
it
.
And
these
does
she
apply
for
warnings
and
portents
And
evils
imminent
,
and
on
her
knee
Hath
begged
that
I
will
stay
at
home
today
.
This
dream
is
all
amiss
interpreted
.
It
was
a
vision
fair
and
fortunate
.
Your
statue
spouting
blood
in
many
pipes
,
In
which
so
many
smiling
Romans
bathed
,
Signifies
that
from
you
great
Rome
shall
suck
Reviving
blood
,
and
that
great
men
shall
press
For
tinctures
,
stains
,
relics
,
and
cognizance
.
This
by
Calphurnia’s
dream
is
signified
.
How
foolish
do
your
fears
seem
now
,
Calphurnia
!
I
am
ashamèd
I
did
yield
to
them
.
Give
me
my
robe
,
for
I
will
go
.
And
look
where
Publius
is
come
to
fetch
me
.
Caesar
,
beware
of
Brutus
,
take
heed
of
Cassius
,
come
not
near
Casca
,
have
an
eye
to
Cinna
,
trust
not
Trebonius
,
mark
well
Metellus
Cimber
.
Decius
Brutus
loves
thee
not
.
Thou
hast
wronged
Caius
Ligarius
.
There
is
but
one
mind
in
all
these
men
,
and
it
is
bent
against
Caesar
.
If
thou
beest
not
immortal
,
look
about
you
.
Security
gives
way
to
conspiracy
.
The
mighty
gods
defend
thee
!
Thy
lover
,
Artemidorus
Here
will
I
stand
till
Caesar
pass
along
,
And
as
a
suitor
will
I
give
him
this
.
My
heart
laments
that
virtue
cannot
live
Out
of
the
teeth
of
emulation
.
If
thou
read
this
,
O
Caesar
,
thou
mayest
live
;
If
not
,
the
Fates
with
traitors
do
contrive
.
Yes
,
bring
me
word
,
boy
,
if
thy
lord
look
well
,
For
he
went
sickly
forth
.
And
take
good
note
What
Caesar
doth
,
what
suitors
press
to
him
.
Hark
,
boy
,
what
noise
is
that
?
Look
how
he
makes
to
Caesar
.
Mark
him
.
Cassius
,
be
constant
.
Popilius
Lena
speaks
not
of
our
purposes
,
For
look
,
he
smiles
,
and
Caesar
doth
not
change
.
Trebonius
knows
his
time
,
for
look
you
,
Brutus
,
He
draws
Mark
Antony
out
of
the
way
.
I
must
prevent
thee
,
Cimber
.
These
couchings
and
these
lowly
courtesies
Might
fire
the
blood
of
ordinary
men
And
turn
preordinance
and
first
decree
Into
the
law
of
children
.
Be
not
fond
To
think
that
Caesar
bears
such
rebel
blood
That
will
be
thawed
from
the
true
quality
With
that
which
melteth
fools
—
I
mean
sweet
words
,
Low-crookèd
curtsies
,
and
base
spaniel
fawning
.
Thy
brother
by
decree
is
banishèd
.
If
thou
dost
bend
and
pray
and
fawn
for
him
,
I
spurn
thee
like
a
cur
out
of
my
way
.
Know
:
Caesar
doth
not
wrong
,
nor
without
cause
Will
he
be
satisfied
.
I
could
be
well
moved
,
if
I
were
as
you
.
If
I
could
pray
to
move
,
prayers
would
move
me
.
But
I
am
constant
as
the
Northern
Star
,
Of
whose
true
fixed
and
resting
quality
There
is
no
fellow
in
the
firmament
.
The
skies
are
painted
with
unnumbered
sparks
;
They
are
all
fire
,
and
every
one
doth
shine
.
But
there’s
but
one
in
all
doth
hold
his
place
.
So
in
the
world
:
’tis
furnished
well
with
men
,
And
men
are
flesh
and
blood
,
and
apprehensive
.
Yet
in
the
number
I
do
know
but
one
That
unassailable
holds
on
his
rank
,
Unshaked
of
motion
;
and
that
I
am
he
Let
me
a
little
show
it
,
even
in
this
:
That
I
was
constant
Cimber
should
be
banished
And
constant
do
remain
to
keep
him
so
.
Grant
that
,
and
then
is
death
a
benefit
.
So
are
we
Caesar’s
friends
,
that
have
abridged
His
time
of
fearing
death
.
Stoop
,
Romans
,
stoop
,
And
let
us
bathe
our
hands
in
Caesar’s
blood
Up
to
the
elbows
and
besmear
our
swords
.
Then
walk
we
forth
,
even
to
the
marketplace
,
And
,
waving
our
red
weapons
o’er
our
heads
,
Let’s
all
cry
Peace
,
freedom
,
and
liberty
!
Stoop
then
,
and
wash
.
How
many
ages
hence
Shall
this
our
lofty
scene
be
acted
over
In
states
unborn
and
accents
yet
unknown
!
O
mighty
Caesar
,
dost
thou
lie
so
low
?
Are
all
thy
conquests
,
glories
,
triumphs
,
spoils
Shrunk
to
this
little
measure
?
Fare
thee
well
.
—
I
know
not
,
gentlemen
,
what
you
intend
,
Who
else
must
be
let
blood
,
who
else
is
rank
.
If
I
myself
,
there
is
no
hour
so
fit
As
Caesar’s
death’s
hour
,
nor
no
instrument
Of
half
that
worth
as
those
your
swords
made
rich
With
the
most
noble
blood
of
all
this
world
.
I
do
beseech
you
,
if
you
bear
me
hard
,
Now
,
whilst
your
purpled
hands
do
reek
and
smoke
,
Fulfill
your
pleasure
.
Live
a
thousand
years
,
I
shall
not
find
myself
so
apt
to
die
;
No
place
will
please
me
so
,
no
mean
of
death
,
As
here
by
Caesar
,
and
by
you
cut
off
,
The
choice
and
master
spirits
of
this
age
.
O
Antony
,
beg
not
your
death
of
us
!
Though
now
we
must
appear
bloody
and
cruel
,
As
by
our
hands
and
this
our
present
act
You
see
we
do
,
yet
see
you
but
our
hands
And
this
the
bleeding
business
they
have
done
.
Our
hearts
you
see
not
;
they
are
pitiful
;
And
pity
to
the
general
wrong
of
Rome
(
As
fire
drives
out
fire
,
so
pity
pity
)
Hath
done
this
deed
on
Caesar
.
For
your
part
,
To
you
our
swords
have
leaden
points
,
Mark
Antony
.
Our
arms
in
strength
of
malice
,
and
our
hearts
Of
brothers’
temper
,
do
receive
you
in
With
all
kind
love
,
good
thoughts
,
and
reverence
.
I
doubt
not
of
your
wisdom
.
Let
each
man
render
me
his
bloody
hand
.
First
,
Marcus
Brutus
,
will
I
shake
with
you
.
—
Next
,
Caius
Cassius
,
do
I
take
your
hand
.
—
Now
,
Decius
Brutus
,
yours
;
—
now
yours
,
Metellus
;
—
Yours
,
Cinna
;
—
and
,
my
valiant
Casca
,
yours
;
—
Though
last
,
not
least
in
love
,
yours
,
good
Trebonius
.
—
Gentlemen
all
—
alas
,
what
shall
I
say
?
My
credit
now
stands
on
such
slippery
ground
That
one
of
two
bad
ways
you
must
conceit
me
,
Either
a
coward
or
a
flatterer
.
—
That
I
did
love
thee
,
Caesar
,
O
,
’tis
true
!
If
then
thy
spirit
look
upon
us
now
,
Shall
it
not
grieve
thee
dearer
than
thy
death
To
see
thy
Antony
making
his
peace
,
Shaking
the
bloody
fingers
of
thy
foes
—
Most
noble
!
—
in
the
presence
of
thy
corpse
?
Had
I
as
many
eyes
as
thou
hast
wounds
,
Weeping
as
fast
as
they
stream
forth
thy
blood
,
It
would
become
me
better
than
to
close
In
terms
of
friendship
with
thine
enemies
.
Pardon
me
,
Julius
!
Here
wast
thou
bayed
,
brave
hart
,
Here
didst
thou
fall
,
and
here
thy
hunters
stand
Signed
in
thy
spoil
and
crimsoned
in
thy
Lethe
.
O
world
,
thou
wast
the
forest
to
this
hart
,
And
this
indeed
,
O
world
,
the
heart
of
thee
.
How
like
a
deer
strucken
by
many
princes
Dost
thou
here
lie
!
Therefore
I
took
your
hands
,
but
was
indeed
Swayed
from
the
point
by
looking
down
on
Caesar
.
Friends
am
I
with
you
all
and
love
you
all
,
Upon
this
hope
,
that
you
shall
give
me
reasons
Why
and
wherein
Caesar
was
dangerous
.
O
pardon
me
,
thou
bleeding
piece
of
earth
,
That
I
am
meek
and
gentle
with
these
butchers
.
Thou
art
the
ruins
of
the
noblest
man
That
ever
livèd
in
the
tide
of
times
.
Woe
to
the
hand
that
shed
this
costly
blood
!
Over
thy
wounds
now
do
I
prophesy
(
Which
like
dumb
mouths
do
ope
their
ruby
lips
To
beg
the
voice
and
utterance
of
my
tongue
)
A
curse
shall
light
upon
the
limbs
of
men
;
Domestic
fury
and
fierce
civil
strife
Shall
cumber
all
the
parts
of
Italy
;
Blood
and
destruction
shall
be
so
in
use
And
dreadful
objects
so
familiar
That
mothers
shall
but
smile
when
they
behold
Their
infants
quartered
with
the
hands
of
war
,
All
pity
choked
with
custom
of
fell
deeds
;
And
Caesar’s
spirit
,
ranging
for
revenge
,
With
Ate
by
his
side
come
hot
from
hell
,
Shall
in
these
confines
with
a
monarch’s
voice
Cry
Havoc
!
and
let
slip
the
dogs
of
war
,
That
this
foul
deed
shall
smell
above
the
earth
With
carrion
men
groaning
for
burial
.
You
serve
Octavius
Caesar
,
do
you
not
?
Post
back
with
speed
and
tell
him
what
hath
chanced
.
Here
is
a
mourning
Rome
,
a
dangerous
Rome
,
No
Rome
of
safety
for
Octavius
yet
.
Hie
hence
and
tell
him
so
.
—
Yet
stay
awhile
;
Thou
shalt
not
back
till
I
have
borne
this
corpse
Into
the
marketplace
.
There
shall
I
try
,
In
my
oration
,
how
the
people
take
The
cruel
issue
of
these
bloody
men
,
According
to
the
which
thou
shalt
discourse
To
young
Octavius
of
the
state
of
things
.
Lend
me
your
hand
.
But
yesterday
the
word
of
Caesar
might
Have
stood
against
the
world
.
Now
lies
he
there
,
And
none
so
poor
to
do
him
reverence
.
O
masters
,
if
I
were
disposed
to
stir
Your
hearts
and
minds
to
mutiny
and
rage
,
I
should
do
Brutus
wrong
and
Cassius
wrong
,
Who
,
you
all
know
,
are
honorable
men
.
I
will
not
do
them
wrong
.
I
rather
choose
To
wrong
the
dead
,
to
wrong
myself
and
you
,
Than
I
will
wrong
such
honorable
men
.
But
here’s
a
parchment
with
the
seal
of
Caesar
.
I
found
it
in
his
closet
.
’Tis
his
will
.
Let
but
the
commons
hear
this
testament
,
Which
,
pardon
me
,
I
do
not
mean
to
read
,
And
they
would
go
and
kiss
dead
Caesar’s
wounds
And
dip
their
napkins
in
his
sacred
blood
—
Yea
,
beg
a
hair
of
him
for
memory
And
,
dying
,
mention
it
within
their
wills
,
Bequeathing
it
as
a
rich
legacy
Unto
their
issue
.
If
you
have
tears
,
prepare
to
shed
them
now
.
You
all
do
know
this
mantle
.
I
remember
The
first
time
ever
Caesar
put
it
on
.
’Twas
on
a
summer’s
evening
in
his
tent
,
That
day
he
overcame
the
Nervii
.
Look
,
in
this
place
ran
Cassius’
dagger
through
.
See
what
a
rent
the
envious
Casca
made
.
Through
this
the
well-belovèd
Brutus
stabbed
,
And
,
as
he
plucked
his
cursèd
steel
away
,
Mark
how
the
blood
of
Caesar
followed
it
,
As
rushing
out
of
doors
to
be
resolved
If
Brutus
so
unkindly
knocked
or
no
;
For
Brutus
,
as
you
know
,
was
Caesar’s
angel
.
Judge
,
O
you
gods
,
how
dearly
Caesar
loved
him
!
This
was
the
most
unkindest
cut
of
all
.
For
when
the
noble
Caesar
saw
him
stab
,
Ingratitude
,
more
strong
than
traitors’
arms
,
Quite
vanquished
him
.
Then
burst
his
mighty
heart
,
And
,
in
his
mantle
muffling
up
his
face
,
Even
at
the
base
of
Pompey’s
statue
(
Which
all
the
while
ran
blood
)
great
Caesar
fell
.
O
,
what
a
fall
was
there
,
my
countrymen
!
Then
I
and
you
and
all
of
us
fell
down
,
Whilst
bloody
treason
flourished
over
us
.
O
,
now
you
weep
,
and
I
perceive
you
feel
The
dint
of
pity
.
These
are
gracious
drops
.
Kind
souls
,
what
,
weep
you
when
you
but
behold
Our
Caesar’s
vesture
wounded
?
Look
you
here
,
Here
is
himself
,
marred
as
you
see
with
traitors
.
O most bloody sight !
Good
friends
,
sweet
friends
,
let
me
not
stir
you
up
To
such
a
sudden
flood
of
mutiny
.
They
that
have
done
this
deed
are
honorable
.
What
private
griefs
they
have
,
alas
,
I
know
not
,
That
made
them
do
it
.
They
are
wise
and
honorable
And
will
no
doubt
with
reasons
answer
you
.
I
come
not
,
friends
,
to
steal
away
your
hearts
.
I
am
no
orator
,
as
Brutus
is
,
But
,
as
you
know
me
all
,
a
plain
blunt
man
That
love
my
friend
,
and
that
they
know
full
well
That
gave
me
public
leave
to
speak
of
him
.
For
I
have
neither
wit
,
nor
words
,
nor
worth
,
Action
,
nor
utterance
,
nor
the
power
of
speech
To
stir
men’s
blood
.
I
only
speak
right
on
.
I
tell
you
that
which
you
yourselves
do
know
,
Show
you
sweet
Caesar’s
wounds
,
poor
poor
dumb
mouths
,
And
bid
them
speak
for
me
.
But
were
I
Brutus
,
And
Brutus
Antony
,
there
were
an
Antony
Would
ruffle
up
your
spirits
and
put
a
tongue
In
every
wound
of
Caesar
that
should
move
The
stones
of
Rome
to
rise
and
mutiny
.
He
shall
not
live
;
look
,
with
a
spot
I
damn
him
.
But
,
Lepidus
,
go
you
to
Caesar’s
house
;
Fetch
the
will
hither
,
and
we
shall
determine
How
to
cut
off
some
charge
in
legacies
.
Thou
hast
described
A
hot
friend
cooling
.
Ever
note
,
Lucilius
,
When
love
begins
to
sicken
and
decay
It
useth
an
enforcèd
ceremony
.
There
are
no
tricks
in
plain
and
simple
faith
;
But
hollow
men
,
like
horses
hot
at
hand
,
Make
gallant
show
and
promise
of
their
mettle
,
But
when
they
should
endure
the
bloody
spur
,
They
fall
their
crests
and
,
like
deceitful
jades
,
Sink
in
the
trial
.
Comes
his
army
on
?
You
have
done
that
you
should
be
sorry
for
.
There
is
no
terror
,
Cassius
,
in
your
threats
,
For
I
am
armed
so
strong
in
honesty
That
they
pass
by
me
as
the
idle
wind
,
Which
I
respect
not
.
I
did
send
to
you
For
certain
sums
of
gold
,
which
you
denied
me
,
For
I
can
raise
no
money
by
vile
means
.
By
heaven
,
I
had
rather
coin
my
heart
And
drop
my
blood
for
drachmas
than
to
wring
From
the
hard
hands
of
peasants
their
vile
trash
By
any
indirection
.
I
did
send
To
you
for
gold
to
pay
my
legions
,
Which
you
denied
me
.
Was
that
done
like
Cassius
?
Should
I
have
answered
Caius
Cassius
so
?
When
Marcus
Brutus
grows
so
covetous
To
lock
such
rascal
counters
from
his
friends
,
Be
ready
,
gods
,
with
all
your
thunderbolts
;
Dash
him
to
pieces
!
Hath
Cassius
lived
To
be
but
mirth
and
laughter
to
his
Brutus
When
grief
and
blood
ill-tempered
vexeth
him
?
Under
your
pardon
.
You
must
note
besides
That
we
have
tried
the
utmost
of
our
friends
,
Our
legions
are
brim
full
,
our
cause
is
ripe
.
The
enemy
increaseth
every
day
;
We
,
at
the
height
,
are
ready
to
decline
.
There
is
a
tide
in
the
affairs
of
men
Which
,
taken
at
the
flood
,
leads
on
to
fortune
;
Omitted
,
all
the
voyage
of
their
life
Is
bound
in
shallows
and
in
miseries
.
On
such
a
full
sea
are
we
now
afloat
,
And
we
must
take
the
current
when
it
serves
Or
lose
our
ventures
.
I
will
not
have
it
so
.
Lie
down
,
good
sirs
.
It
may
be
I
shall
otherwise
bethink
me
.
Look
,
Lucius
,
here’s
the
book
I
sought
for
so
.
I
put
it
in
the
pocket
of
my
gown
.
I
should
not
urge
thy
duty
past
thy
might
.
I
know
young
bloods
look
for
a
time
of
rest
.
It
was
well
done
,
and
thou
shalt
sleep
again
.
I
will
not
hold
thee
long
.
If
I
do
live
,
I
will
be
good
to
thee
.
This
is
a
sleepy
tune
.
O
murd’rous
slumber
,
Layest
thou
thy
leaden
mace
upon
my
boy
,
That
plays
thee
music
?
—
Gentle
knave
,
good
night
.
I
will
not
do
thee
so
much
wrong
to
wake
thee
.
If
thou
dost
nod
,
thou
break’st
thy
instrument
.
I’ll
take
it
from
thee
and
,
good
boy
,
good
night
.
Let
me
see
,
let
me
see
;
is
not
the
leaf
turned
down
Where
I
left
reading
?
Here
it
is
,
I
think
.
How
ill
this
taper
burns
.
Ha
,
who
comes
here
?
—
I
think
it
is
the
weakness
of
mine
eyes
That
shapes
this
monstrous
apparition
.
It
comes
upon
me
.
—
Art
thou
any
thing
?
Art
thou
some
god
,
some
angel
,
or
some
devil
,
That
mak’st
my
blood
cold
and
my
hair
to
stare
?
Speak
to
me
what
thou
art
.
Prepare
you
,
generals
.
The
enemy
comes
on
in
gallant
show
.
Their
bloody
sign
of
battle
is
hung
out
,
And
something
to
be
done
immediately
.
Come
,
come
,
the
cause
.
If
arguing
make
us
sweat
,
The
proof
of
it
will
turn
to
redder
drops
.
Look
,
I
draw
a
sword
against
conspirators
;
When
think
you
that
the
sword
goes
up
again
?
Never
,
till
Caesar’s
three
and
thirty
wounds
Be
well
avenged
,
or
till
another
Caesar
Have
added
slaughter
to
the
sword
of
traitors
.
Messala
,
This
is
my
birthday
,
as
this
very
day
Was
Cassius
born
.
Give
me
thy
hand
,
Messala
.
Be
thou
my
witness
that
against
my
will
(
As
Pompey
was
)
am
I
compelled
to
set
Upon
one
battle
all
our
liberties
.
You
know
that
I
held
Epicurus
strong
And
his
opinion
.
Now
I
change
my
mind
And
partly
credit
things
that
do
presage
.
Coming
from
Sardis
,
on
our
former
ensign
Two
mighty
eagles
fell
,
and
there
they
perched
,
Gorging
and
feeding
from
our
soldiers’
hands
,
Who
to
Philippi
here
consorted
us
.
This
morning
are
they
fled
away
and
gone
,
And
in
their
steads
do
ravens
,
crows
,
and
kites
Fly
o’er
our
heads
and
downward
look
on
us
As
we
were
sickly
prey
.
Their
shadows
seem
A
canopy
most
fatal
,
under
which
Our
army
lies
,
ready
to
give
up
the
ghost
.
O
,
look
,
Titinius
,
look
,
the
villains
fly
!
Myself
have
to
mine
own
turned
enemy
.
This
ensign
here
of
mine
was
turning
back
;
I
slew
the
coward
and
did
take
it
from
him
.
This
hill
is
far
enough
.
—
Look
,
look
,
Titinius
,
Are
those
my
tents
where
I
perceive
the
fire
?
No
,
this
was
he
,
Messala
,
But
Cassius
is
no
more
.
O
setting
sun
,
As
in
thy
red
rays
thou
dost
sink
to
night
,
So
in
his
red
blood
Cassius’
day
is
set
.
The
sun
of
Rome
is
set
.
Our
day
is
gone
;
Clouds
,
dews
,
and
dangers
come
.
Our
deeds
are
done
.
Mistrust
of
my
success
hath
done
this
deed
.
Brave
Titinius
!
—
Look
whe’er
he
have
not
crowned
dead
Cassius
.
To
kill
him
,
Clitus
.
Look
,
he
meditates
.
The
proud
control
of
fierce
and
bloody
war
,
To
enforce
these
rights
so
forcibly
withheld
.
Here
have
we
war
for
war
and
blood
for
blood
,
Controlment
for
controlment
:
so
answer
France
.
Bear
mine
to
him
,
and
so
depart
in
peace
.
Be
thou
as
lightning
in
the
eyes
of
France
,
For
ere
thou
canst
report
,
I
will
be
there
;
The
thunder
of
my
cannon
shall
be
heard
.
So
,
hence
.
Be
thou
the
trumpet
of
our
wrath
And
sullen
presage
of
your
own
decay
.
—
An
honorable
conduct
let
him
have
.
Pembroke
,
look
to
’t
.
—
Farewell
,
Chatillion
.
What
now
,
my
son
!
Have
I
not
ever
said
How
that
ambitious
Constance
would
not
cease
Till
she
had
kindled
France
and
all
the
world
Upon
the
right
and
party
of
her
son
?
This
might
have
been
prevented
and
made
whole
With
very
easy
arguments
of
love
,
Which
now
the
manage
of
two
kingdoms
must
With
fearful
bloody
issue
arbitrate
.
Madam
,
an
if
my
brother
had
my
shape
And
I
had
his
,
Sir
Robert’s
his
like
him
,
And
if
my
legs
were
two
such
riding-rods
,
My
arms
such
eel-skins
stuffed
,
my
face
so
thin
That
in
mine
ear
I
durst
not
stick
a
rose
,
Lest
men
should
say
Look
where
three-farthings
goes
,
And
,
to
his
shape
,
were
heir
to
all
this
land
,
Would
I
might
never
stir
from
off
this
place
,
I
would
give
it
every
foot
to
have
this
face
.
I
would
not
be
Sir
Nob
in
any
case
.
Before
Angiers
well
met
,
brave
Austria
.
—
Arthur
,
that
great
forerunner
of
thy
blood
,
Richard
,
that
robbed
the
lion
of
his
heart
And
fought
the
holy
wars
in
Palestine
,
By
this
brave
duke
came
early
to
his
grave
.
And
,
for
amends
to
his
posterity
,
At
our
importance
hither
is
he
come
To
spread
his
colors
,
boy
,
in
thy
behalf
,
And
to
rebuke
the
usurpation
Of
thy
unnatural
uncle
,
English
John
.
Embrace
him
,
love
him
,
give
him
welcome
hither
.
Well
,
then
,
to
work
.
Our
cannon
shall
be
bent
Against
the
brows
of
this
resisting
town
.
Call
for
our
chiefest
men
of
discipline
To
cull
the
plots
of
best
advantages
.
We’ll
lay
before
this
town
our
royal
bones
,
Wade
to
the
marketplace
in
Frenchmen’s
blood
,
But
we
will
make
it
subject
to
this
boy
.
Stay
for
an
answer
to
your
embassy
,
Lest
unadvised
you
stain
your
swords
with
blood
.
My
lord
Chatillion
may
from
England
bring
That
right
in
peace
which
here
we
urge
in
war
,
And
then
we
shall
repent
each
drop
of
blood
That
hot
rash
haste
so
indirectly
shed
.
Then
turn
your
forces
from
this
paltry
siege
And
stir
them
up
against
a
mightier
task
.
England
,
impatient
of
your
just
demands
,
Hath
put
himself
in
arms
.
The
adverse
winds
,
Whose
leisure
I
have
stayed
,
have
given
him
time
To
land
his
legions
all
as
soon
as
I
.
His
marches
are
expedient
to
this
town
,
His
forces
strong
,
his
soldiers
confident
.
With
him
along
is
come
the
Mother
Queen
,
An
Ate
stirring
him
to
blood
and
strife
;
With
her
her
niece
,
the
Lady
Blanche
of
Spain
;
With
them
a
bastard
of
the
King’s
deceased
.
And
all
th’
unsettled
humors
of
the
land
—
Rash
,
inconsiderate
,
fiery
voluntaries
,
With
ladies’
faces
and
fierce
dragons’
spleens
—
Have
sold
their
fortunes
at
their
native
homes
,
Bearing
their
birthrights
proudly
on
their
backs
,
To
make
a
hazard
of
new
fortunes
here
.
In
brief
,
a
braver
choice
of
dauntless
spirits
Than
now
the
English
bottoms
have
waft
o’er
Did
never
float
upon
the
swelling
tide
To
do
offense
and
scathe
in
Christendom
.
The
interruption
of
their
churlish
drums
Cuts
off
more
circumstance
.
They
are
at
hand
,
To
parley
or
to
fight
,
therefore
prepare
.
How
much
unlooked-for
is
this
expedition
.
Peace
be
to
England
,
if
that
war
return
From
France
to
England
,
there
to
live
in
peace
.
England
we
love
,
and
for
that
England’s
sake
With
burden
of
our
armor
here
we
sweat
.
This
toil
of
ours
should
be
a
work
of
thine
;
But
thou
from
loving
England
art
so
far
That
thou
hast
underwrought
his
lawful
king
,
Cut
off
the
sequence
of
posterity
,
Outfacèd
infant
state
,
and
done
a
rape
Upon
the
maiden
virtue
of
the
crown
.
Look
here
upon
thy
brother
Geoffrey’s
face
.
These
eyes
,
these
brows
,
were
molded
out
of
his
;
This
little
abstract
doth
contain
that
large
Which
died
in
Geoffrey
,
and
the
hand
of
time
Shall
draw
this
brief
into
as
huge
a
volume
.
That
Geoffrey
was
thy
elder
brother
born
,
And
this
his
son
.
England
was
Geoffrey’s
right
,
And
this
is
Geoffrey’s
.
In
the
name
of
God
,
How
comes
it
then
that
thou
art
called
a
king
,
When
living
blood
doth
in
these
temples
beat
Which
owe
the
crown
that
thou
o’ermasterest
?
From
that
supernal
judge
that
stirs
good
thoughts
In
any
breast
of
strong
authority
To
look
into
the
blots
and
stains
of
right
.
That
judge
hath
made
me
guardian
to
this
boy
,
Under
whose
warrant
I
impeach
thy
wrong
,
And
by
whose
help
I
mean
to
chastise
it
.
One
that
will
play
the
devil
,
sir
,
with
you
,
An
he
may
catch
your
hide
and
you
alone
.
You
are
the
hare
of
whom
the
proverb
goes
,
Whose
valor
plucks
dead
lions
by
the
beard
.
I’ll
smoke
your
skin-coat
an
I
catch
you
right
.
Sirrah
,
look
to
’t
.
I’
faith
,
I
will
,
i’
faith
!
For
our
advantage
.
Therefore
hear
us
first
.
These
flags
of
France
that
are
advancèd
here
Before
the
eye
and
prospect
of
your
town
,
Have
hither
marched
to
your
endamagement
.
The
cannons
have
their
bowels
full
of
wrath
,
And
ready
mounted
are
they
to
spit
forth
Their
iron
indignation
’gainst
your
walls
.
All
preparation
for
a
bloody
siege
And
merciless
proceeding
by
these
French
Confronts
your
city’s
eyes
,
your
winking
gates
,
And
,
but
for
our
approach
,
those
sleeping
stones
,
That
as
a
waist
doth
girdle
you
about
,
By
the
compulsion
of
their
ordinance
By
this
time
from
their
fixèd
beds
of
lime
Had
been
dishabited
,
and
wide
havoc
made
For
bloody
power
to
rush
upon
your
peace
.
But
on
the
sight
of
us
your
lawful
king
,
Who
painfully
with
much
expedient
march
Have
brought
a
countercheck
before
your
gates
To
save
unscratched
your
city’s
threatened
cheeks
,
Behold
,
the
French
,
amazed
,
vouchsafe
a
parle
.
And
now
,
instead
of
bullets
wrapped
in
fire
To
make
a
shaking
fever
in
your
walls
,
They
shoot
but
calm
words
folded
up
in
smoke
To
make
a
faithless
error
in
your
ears
,
Which
trust
accordingly
,
kind
citizens
,
And
let
us
in
.
Your
king
,
whose
labored
spirits
Forwearied
in
this
action
of
swift
speed
,
Craves
harborage
within
your
city
walls
.
When
I
have
said
,
make
answer
to
us
both
.
Lo
,
in
this
right
hand
,
whose
protection
Is
most
divinely
vowed
upon
the
right
Of
him
it
holds
,
stands
young
Plantagenet
,
Son
to
the
elder
brother
of
this
man
,
And
king
o’er
him
and
all
that
he
enjoys
.
For
this
downtrodden
equity
we
tread
In
warlike
march
these
greens
before
your
town
,
Being
no
further
enemy
to
you
Than
the
constraint
of
hospitable
zeal
In
the
relief
of
this
oppressèd
child
Religiously
provokes
.
Be
pleasèd
then
To
pay
that
duty
which
you
truly
owe
To
him
that
owes
it
,
namely
,
this
young
prince
,
And
then
our
arms
,
like
to
a
muzzled
bear
Save
in
aspect
,
hath
all
offense
sealed
up
.
Our
cannons’
malice
vainly
shall
be
spent
Against
th’
invulnerable
clouds
of
heaven
,
And
with
a
blessèd
and
unvexed
retire
,
With
unbacked
swords
and
helmets
all
unbruised
,
We
will
bear
home
that
lusty
blood
again
Which
here
we
came
to
spout
against
your
town
,
And
leave
your
children
,
wives
,
and
you
in
peace
.
But
if
you
fondly
pass
our
proffered
offer
,
’Tis
not
the
roundure
of
your
old-faced
walls
Can
hide
you
from
our
messengers
of
war
,
Though
all
these
English
and
their
discipline
Were
harbored
in
their
rude
circumference
.
Then
tell
us
,
shall
your
city
call
us
lord
In
that
behalf
which
we
have
challenged
it
?
Or
shall
we
give
the
signal
to
our
rage
And
stalk
in
blood
to
our
possession
?
As
many
and
as
wellborn
bloods
as
those
—
Rejoice
,
you
men
of
Angiers
,
ring
your
bells
!
King
John
,
your
king
and
England’s
,
doth
approach
,
Commander
of
this
hot
malicious
day
.
Their
armors
,
that
marched
hence
so
silver
bright
,
Hither
return
all
gilt
with
Frenchmen’s
blood
.
There
stuck
no
plume
in
any
English
crest
That
is
removèd
by
a
staff
of
France
.
Our
colors
do
return
in
those
same
hands
That
did
display
them
when
we
first
marched
forth
,
And
like
a
jolly
troop
of
huntsmen
come
Our
lusty
English
,
all
with
purpled
hands
,
Dyed
in
the
dying
slaughter
of
their
foes
.
Open
your
gates
,
and
give
the
victors
way
.
Heralds
,
from
off
our
towers
we
might
behold
From
first
to
last
the
onset
and
retire
Of
both
your
armies
,
whose
equality
By
our
best
eyes
cannot
be
censurèd
.
Blood
hath
bought
blood
,
and
blows
have
answered
blows
,
Strength
matched
with
strength
,
and
power
confronted
power
.
Both
are
alike
,
and
both
alike
we
like
.
One
must
prove
greatest
.
While
they
weigh
so
even
,
We
hold
our
town
for
neither
,
yet
for
both
.
France
,
hast
thou
yet
more
blood
to
cast
away
?
Say
,
shall
the
current
of
our
right
roam
on
,
Whose
passage
,
vexed
with
thy
impediment
,
Shall
leave
his
native
channel
and
o’erswell
With
course
disturbed
even
thy
confining
shores
,
Unless
thou
let
his
silver
water
keep
A
peaceful
progress
to
the
ocean
?
England
,
thou
hast
not
saved
one
drop
of
blood
In
this
hot
trial
more
than
we
of
France
,
Rather
lost
more
.
And
by
this
hand
I
swear
That
sways
the
earth
this
climate
overlooks
,
Before
we
will
lay
down
our
just-borne
arms
,
We’ll
put
thee
down
,
’gainst
whom
these
arms
we
bear
,
Or
add
a
royal
number
to
the
dead
,
Gracing
the
scroll
that
tells
of
this
war’s
loss
With
slaughter
coupled
to
the
name
of
kings
.
Ha
,
majesty
!
How
high
thy
glory
towers
When
the
rich
blood
of
kings
is
set
on
fire
!
O
,
now
doth
Death
line
his
dead
chaps
with
steel
,
The
swords
of
soldiers
are
his
teeth
,
his
fangs
,
And
now
he
feasts
,
mousing
the
flesh
of
men
In
undetermined
differences
of
kings
.
Why
stand
these
royal
fronts
amazèd
thus
?
Cry
havoc
,
kings
!
Back
to
the
stainèd
field
,
You
equal
potents
,
fiery-kindled
spirits
.
Then
let
confusion
of
one
part
confirm
The
other’s
peace
.
Till
then
,
blows
,
blood
,
and
death
!
By
heaven
,
these
scroyles
of
Angiers
flout
you
,
kings
,
And
stand
securely
on
their
battlements
As
in
a
theater
,
whence
they
gape
and
point
At
your
industrious
scenes
and
acts
of
death
.
Your
royal
presences
,
be
ruled
by
me
:
Do
like
the
mutines
of
Jerusalem
,
Be
friends
awhile
,
and
both
conjointly
bend
Your
sharpest
deeds
of
malice
on
this
town
.
By
east
and
west
let
France
and
England
mount
Their
battering
cannon
chargèd
to
the
mouths
,
Till
their
soul-fearing
clamors
have
brawled
down
The
flinty
ribs
of
this
contemptuous
city
.
I’d
play
incessantly
upon
these
jades
,
Even
till
unfencèd
desolation
Leave
them
as
naked
as
the
vulgar
air
.
That
done
,
dissever
your
united
strengths
And
part
your
mingled
colors
once
again
;
Turn
face
to
face
and
bloody
point
to
point
.
Then
in
a
moment
Fortune
shall
cull
forth
Out
of
one
side
her
happy
minion
,
To
whom
in
favor
she
shall
give
the
day
And
kiss
him
with
a
glorious
victory
.
How
like
you
this
wild
counsel
,
mighty
states
?
Smacks
it
not
something
of
the
policy
?
That
daughter
there
of
Spain
,
the
Lady
Blanche
,
Is
near
to
England
.
Look
upon
the
years
Of
Louis
the
Dauphin
and
that
lovely
maid
.
If
lusty
love
should
go
in
quest
of
beauty
,
Where
should
he
find
it
fairer
than
in
Blanche
?
If
zealous
love
should
go
in
search
of
virtue
,
Where
should
he
find
it
purer
than
in
Blanche
?
If
love
ambitious
sought
a
match
of
birth
,
Whose
veins
bound
richer
blood
than
Lady
Blanche
?
Such
as
she
is
,
in
beauty
,
virtue
,
birth
,
Is
the
young
Dauphin
every
way
complete
.
If
not
complete
of
,
say
he
is
not
she
,
And
she
again
wants
nothing
,
to
name
want
,
If
want
it
be
not
that
she
is
not
he
.
He
is
the
half
part
of
a
blessèd
man
,
Left
to
be
finishèd
by
such
as
she
,
And
she
a
fair
divided
excellence
,
Whose
fullness
of
perfection
lies
in
him
.
O
,
two
such
silver
currents
when
they
join
Do
glorify
the
banks
that
bound
them
in
,
And
two
such
shores
to
two
such
streams
made
one
,
Two
such
controlling
bounds
shall
you
be
,
kings
,
To
these
two
princes
,
if
you
marry
them
.
This
union
shall
do
more
than
battery
can
To
our
fast-closèd
gates
,
for
at
this
match
,
With
swifter
spleen
than
powder
can
enforce
,
The
mouth
of
passage
shall
we
fling
wide
ope
And
give
you
entrance
.
But
without
this
match
,
The
sea
enragèd
is
not
half
so
deaf
,
Lions
more
confident
,
mountains
and
rocks
More
free
from
motion
,
no
,
not
Death
himself
In
mortal
fury
half
so
peremptory
As
we
to
keep
this
city
.
Here’s
a
stay
That
shakes
the
rotten
carcass
of
old
Death
Out
of
his
rags
!
Here’s
a
large
mouth
indeed
That
spits
forth
death
and
mountains
,
rocks
and
seas
;
Talks
as
familiarly
of
roaring
lions
As
maids
of
thirteen
do
of
puppy
dogs
.
What
cannoneer
begot
this
lusty
blood
?
He
speaks
plain
cannon
fire
,
and
smoke
,
and
bounce
.
He
gives
the
bastinado
with
his
tongue
.
Our
ears
are
cudgeled
.
Not
a
word
of
his
But
buffets
better
than
a
fist
of
France
.
Zounds
,
I
was
never
so
bethumped
with
words
Since
I
first
called
my
brother’s
father
Dad
.
Son
,
list
to
this
conjunction
;
make
this
match
.
Give
with
our
niece
a
dowry
large
enough
,
For
by
this
knot
thou
shalt
so
surely
tie
Thy
now
unsured
assurance
to
the
crown
That
yon
green
boy
shall
have
no
sun
to
ripe
The
bloom
that
promiseth
a
mighty
fruit
.
I
see
a
yielding
in
the
looks
of
France
.
Mark
how
they
whisper
.
Urge
them
while
their
souls
Are
capable
of
this
ambition
,
Lest
zeal
,
now
melted
by
the
windy
breath
Of
soft
petitions
,
pity
,
and
remorse
,
Cool
and
congeal
again
to
what
it
was
.
If
that
the
Dauphin
there
,
thy
princely
son
,
Can
in
this
book
of
beauty
read
I
love
,
Her
dowry
shall
weigh
equal
with
a
queen
.
For
Anjou
and
fair
Touraine
,
Maine
,
Poitiers
,
And
all
that
we
upon
this
side
the
sea
—
Except
this
city
now
by
us
besieged
—
Find
liable
to
our
crown
and
dignity
,
Shall
gild
her
bridal
bed
and
make
her
rich
In
titles
,
honors
,
and
promotions
,
As
she
in
beauty
,
education
,
blood
,
Holds
hand
with
any
princess
of
the
world
.
What
sayst
thou
,
boy
?
Look
in
the
lady’s
face
.
We
will
heal
up
all
,
For
we’ll
create
young
Arthur
Duke
of
Brittany
And
Earl
of
Richmond
,
and
this
rich
,
fair
town
We
make
him
lord
of
.
—
Call
the
Lady
Constance
.
Some
speedy
messenger
bid
her
repair
To
our
solemnity
.
I
trust
we
shall
,
If
not
fill
up
the
measure
of
her
will
,
Yet
in
some
measure
satisfy
her
so
That
we
shall
stop
her
exclamation
.
Go
we
as
well
as
haste
will
suffer
us
To
this
unlooked-for
,
unpreparèd
pomp
.
Gone
to
be
married
?
Gone
to
swear
a
peace
?
False
blood
to
false
blood
joined
?
Gone
to
be
friends
?
Shall
Louis
have
Blanche
and
Blanche
those
provinces
?
It
is
not
so
.
Thou
hast
misspoke
,
misheard
.
Be
well
advised
;
tell
o’er
thy
tale
again
.
It
cannot
be
;
thou
dost
but
say
’tis
so
.
I
trust
I
may
not
trust
thee
,
for
thy
word
Is
but
the
vain
breath
of
a
common
man
.
Believe
me
,
I
do
not
believe
thee
,
man
.
I
have
a
king’s
oath
to
the
contrary
.
Thou
shalt
be
punished
for
thus
flighting
me
,
For
I
am
sick
and
capable
of
fears
,
Oppressed
with
wrongs
and
therefore
full
of
fears
,
A
widow
,
husbandless
,
subject
to
fears
,
A
woman
naturally
born
to
fears
.
And
though
thou
now
confess
thou
didst
but
jest
,
With
my
vexed
spirits
I
cannot
take
a
truce
,
But
they
will
quake
and
tremble
all
this
day
.
What
dost
thou
mean
by
shaking
of
thy
head
?
Why
dost
thou
look
so
sadly
on
my
son
?
What
means
that
hand
upon
that
breast
of
thine
?
Why
holds
thine
eye
that
lamentable
rheum
,
Like
a
proud
river
peering
o’er
his
bounds
?
Be
these
sad
signs
confirmers
of
thy
words
?
Then
speak
again
—
not
all
thy
former
tale
,
But
this
one
word
,
whether
thy
tale
be
true
.
You
have
beguiled
me
with
a
counterfeit
Resembling
majesty
,
which
,
being
touched
and
tried
,
Proves
valueless
.
You
are
forsworn
,
forsworn
.
You
came
in
arms
to
spill
mine
enemies’
blood
,
But
now
in
arms
you
strengthen
it
with
yours
.
The
grappling
vigor
and
rough
frown
of
war
Is
cold
in
amity
and
painted
peace
,
And
our
oppression
hath
made
up
this
league
.
Arm
,
arm
,
you
heavens
,
against
these
perjured
kings
!
A
widow
cries
;
be
husband
to
me
,
God
!
Let
not
the
hours
of
this
ungodly
day
Wear
out
the
days
in
peace
,
but
ere
sunset
Set
armèd
discord
’twixt
these
perjured
kings
.
Hear
me
,
O
,
hear
me
!
War
,
war
,
no
peace
!
Peace
is
to
me
a
war
.
O
Limoges
,
O
Austria
,
thou
dost
shame
That
bloody
spoil
.
Thou
slave
,
thou
wretch
,
thou
coward
,
Thou
little
valiant
,
great
in
villainy
,
Thou
ever
strong
upon
the
stronger
side
,
Thou
Fortune’s
champion
,
that
dost
never
fight
But
when
her
humorous
Ladyship
ladyship
is
by
To
teach
thee
safety
.
Thou
art
perjured
too
,
And
sooth’st
up
greatness
.
What
a
fool
art
thou
,
A
ramping
fool
,
to
brag
and
stamp
and
swear
Upon
my
party
.
Thou
cold-blooded
slave
,
Hast
thou
not
spoke
like
thunder
on
my
side
?
Been
sworn
my
soldier
,
bidding
me
depend
Upon
thy
stars
,
thy
fortune
,
and
thy
strength
?
And
dost
thou
now
fall
over
to
my
foes
?
Thou
wear
a
lion’s
hide
!
Doff
it
for
shame
,
And
hang
a
calfskin
on
those
recreant
limbs
.
Look’st
thou
pale
,
France
?
Do
not
let
go
thy
hand
.
Look
to
that
,
devil
,
lest
that
France
repent
And
by
disjoining
hands
,
hell
lose
a
soul
.
Good
reverend
father
,
make
my
person
yours
,
And
tell
me
how
you
would
bestow
yourself
.
This
royal
hand
and
mine
are
newly
knit
,
And
the
conjunction
of
our
inward
souls
Married
,
in
league
,
coupled
,
and
linked
together
With
all
religious
strength
of
sacred
vows
.
The
latest
breath
that
gave
the
sound
of
words
Was
deep-sworn
faith
,
peace
,
amity
,
true
love
Between
our
kingdoms
and
our
royal
selves
;
And
even
before
this
truce
,
but
new
before
,
No
longer
than
we
well
could
wash
our
hands
To
clap
this
royal
bargain
up
of
peace
,
God
knows
they
were
besmeared
and
overstained
With
slaughter’s
pencil
,
where
revenge
did
paint
The
fearful
difference
of
incensèd
kings
.
And
shall
these
hands
,
so
lately
purged
of
blood
,
So
newly
joined
in
love
,
so
strong
in
both
,
Unyoke
this
seizure
and
this
kind
regreet
?
Play
fast
and
loose
with
faith
?
So
jest
with
heaven
?
Make
such
unconstant
children
of
ourselves
As
now
again
to
snatch
our
palm
from
palm
,
Unswear
faith
sworn
,
and
on
the
marriage
bed
Of
smiling
peace
to
march
a
bloody
host
And
make
a
riot
on
the
gentle
brow
Of
true
sincerity
?
O
holy
sir
,
My
reverend
father
,
let
it
not
be
so
!
Out
of
your
grace
,
devise
,
ordain
,
impose
Some
gentle
order
,
and
then
we
shall
be
blest
To
do
your
pleasure
and
continue
friends
.
So
mak’st
thou
faith
an
enemy
to
faith
,
And
like
a
civil
war
sett’st
oath
to
oath
,
Thy
tongue
against
thy
tongue
.
O
,
let
thy
vow
First
made
to
God
,
first
be
to
God
performed
,
That
is
,
to
be
the
champion
of
our
Church
!
What
since
thou
swor’st
is
sworn
against
thyself
And
may
not
be
performèd
by
thyself
,
For
that
which
thou
hast
sworn
to
do
amiss
Is
not
amiss
when
it
is
truly
done
;
And
being
not
done
where
doing
tends
to
ill
,
The
truth
is
then
most
done
not
doing
it
.
The
better
act
of
purposes
mistook
Is
to
mistake
again
;
though
indirect
,
Yet
indirection
thereby
grows
direct
,
And
falsehood
falsehood
cures
,
as
fire
cools
fire
Within
the
scorchèd
veins
of
one
new-burned
.
It
is
religion
that
doth
make
vows
kept
,
But
thou
hast
sworn
against
religion
By
what
thou
swear’st
against
the
thing
thou
swear’st
,
And
mak’st
an
oath
the
surety
for
thy
truth
Against
an
oath
.
The
truth
thou
art
unsure
To
swear
swears
only
not
to
be
forsworn
,
Else
what
a
mockery
should
it
be
to
swear
?
But
thou
dost
swear
only
to
be
forsworn
,
And
most
forsworn
to
keep
what
thou
dost
swear
.
Therefore
thy
later
vows
against
thy
first
Is
in
thyself
rebellion
to
thyself
.
And
better
conquest
never
canst
thou
make
Than
arm
thy
constant
and
thy
nobler
parts
Against
these
giddy
loose
suggestions
,
Upon
which
better
part
our
prayers
come
in
,
If
thou
vouchsafe
them
.
But
if
not
,
then
know
The
peril
of
our
curses
light
on
thee
So
heavy
as
thou
shalt
not
shake
them
off
,
But
in
despair
die
under
their
black
weight
.
Upon
thy
wedding
day
?
Against
the
blood
that
thou
hast
marrièd
?
What
,
shall
our
feast
be
kept
with
slaughtered
men
?
Shall
braying
trumpets
and
loud
churlish
drums
,
Clamors
of
hell
,
be
measures
to
our
pomp
?
O
husband
,
hear
me
!
Ay
,
alack
,
how
new
Is
husband
in
my
mouth
!
Even
for
that
name
,
Which
till
this
time
my
tongue
did
ne’er
pronounce
,
Upon
my
knee
I
beg
,
go
not
to
arms
Against
mine
uncle
.
The
sun’s
o’ercast
with
blood
.
Fair
day
,
adieu
.
Which
is
the
side
that
I
must
go
withal
?
I
am
with
both
,
each
army
hath
a
hand
,
And
in
their
rage
,
I
having
hold
of
both
,
They
whirl
asunder
and
dismember
me
.
Husband
,
I
cannot
pray
that
thou
mayst
win
.
—
Uncle
,
I
needs
must
pray
that
thou
mayst
lose
.
—
Father
,
I
may
not
wish
the
fortune
thine
.
—
Grandam
,
I
will
not
wish
thy
wishes
thrive
.
Whoever
wins
,
on
that
side
shall
I
lose
.
Assurèd
loss
before
the
match
be
played
.
Cousin
,
go
draw
our
puissance
together
.
France
,
I
am
burned
up
with
inflaming
wrath
,
A
rage
whose
heat
hath
this
condition
,
That
nothing
can
allay
,
nothing
but
blood
—
The
blood
,
and
dearest-valued
blood
,
of
France
.
Thy
rage
shall
burn
thee
up
,
and
thou
shalt
turn
To
ashes
ere
our
blood
shall
quench
that
fire
.
Look
to
thyself
.
Thou
art
in
jeopardy
.
So
shall
it
be
.
Your
Grace
shall
stay
behind
So
strongly
guarded
.
Cousin
,
look
not
sad
.
Thy
grandam
loves
thee
,
and
thy
uncle
will
As
dear
be
to
thee
as
thy
father
was
.
Good
friend
,
thou
hast
no
cause
to
say
so
yet
,
But
thou
shalt
have
.
And
,
creep
time
ne’er
so
slow
,
Yet
it
shall
come
for
me
to
do
thee
good
.
I
had
a
thing
to
say
—
but
let
it
go
.
The
sun
is
in
the
heaven
,
and
the
proud
day
,
Attended
with
the
pleasures
of
the
world
,
Is
all
too
wanton
and
too
full
of
gauds
To
give
me
audience
.
If
the
midnight
bell
Did
with
his
iron
tongue
and
brazen
mouth
Sound
on
into
the
drowsy
race
of
night
;
If
this
same
were
a
churchyard
where
we
stand
,
And
thou
possessèd
with
a
thousand
wrongs
;
Or
if
that
surly
spirit
,
melancholy
,
Had
baked
thy
blood
and
made
it
heavy
,
thick
,
Which
else
runs
tickling
up
and
down
the
veins
,
Making
that
idiot
,
laughter
,
keep
men’s
eyes
And
strain
their
cheeks
to
idle
merriment
,
A
passion
hateful
to
my
purposes
;
Or
if
that
thou
couldst
see
me
without
eyes
,
Hear
me
without
thine
ears
,
and
make
reply
Without
a
tongue
,
using
conceit
alone
,
Without
eyes
,
ears
,
and
harmful
sound
of
words
;
Then
,
in
despite
of
brooded
watchful
day
,
I
would
into
thy
bosom
pour
my
thoughts
.
But
,
ah
,
I
will
not
.
Yet
I
love
thee
well
,
And
by
my
troth
I
think
thou
lov’st
me
well
.
So
,
by
a
roaring
tempest
on
the
flood
,
A
whole
armada
of
convicted
sail
Is
scattered
and
disjoined
from
fellowship
.
What
can
go
well
when
we
have
run
so
ill
?
Are
we
not
beaten
?
Is
not
Angiers
lost
?
Arthur
ta’en
prisoner
?
Divers
dear
friends
slain
?
And
bloody
England
into
England
gone
,
O’erbearing
interruption
,
spite
of
France
?
Well
could
I
bear
that
England
had
this
praise
,
So
we
could
find
some
pattern
of
our
shame
.
Look
who
comes
here
!
A
grave
unto
a
soul
,
Holding
th’
eternal
spirit
against
her
will
In
the
vile
prison
of
afflicted
breath
.
—
I
prithee
,
lady
,
go
away
with
me
.
Yes
,
that
I
will
.
And
wherefore
will
I
do
it
?
I
tore
them
from
their
bonds
and
cried
aloud
O
,
that
these
hands
could
so
redeem
my
son
,
As
they
have
given
these
hairs
their
liberty
!
But
now
I
envy
at
their
liberty
,
And
will
again
commit
them
to
their
bonds
,
Because
my
poor
child
is
a
prisoner
.
And
father
cardinal
,
I
have
heard
you
say
That
we
shall
see
and
know
our
friends
in
heaven
.
If
that
be
true
,
I
shall
see
my
boy
again
;
For
since
the
birth
of
Cain
,
the
first
male
child
,
To
him
that
did
but
yesterday
suspire
,
There
was
not
such
a
gracious
creature
born
.
But
now
will
canker
sorrow
eat
my
bud
And
chase
the
native
beauty
from
his
cheek
,
And
he
will
look
as
hollow
as
a
ghost
,
As
dim
and
meager
as
an
ague’s
fit
,
And
so
he’ll
die
;
and
,
rising
so
again
,
When
I
shall
meet
him
in
the
court
of
heaven
I
shall
not
know
him
.
Therefore
never
,
never
Must
I
behold
my
pretty
Arthur
more
.
Grief
fills
the
room
up
of
my
absent
child
,
Lies
in
his
bed
,
walks
up
and
down
with
me
,
Puts
on
his
pretty
looks
,
repeats
his
words
,
Remembers
me
of
all
his
gracious
parts
,
Stuffs
out
his
vacant
garments
with
his
form
;
Then
,
have
I
reason
to
be
fond
of
grief
?
Fare
you
well
.
Had
you
such
a
loss
as
I
,
I
could
give
better
comfort
than
you
do
.
I
will
not
keep
this
form
upon
my
head
When
there
is
such
disorder
in
my
wit
.
O
Lord
!
My
boy
,
my
Arthur
,
my
fair
son
,
My
life
,
my
joy
,
my
food
,
my
all
the
world
,
My
widow-comfort
and
my
sorrows’
cure
!
If
you
had
won
it
,
certainly
you
had
.
No
,
no
.
When
Fortune
means
to
men
most
good
,
She
looks
upon
them
with
a
threat’ning
eye
.
’Tis
strange
to
think
how
much
King
John
hath
lost
In
this
which
he
accounts
so
clearly
won
.
Are
not
you
grieved
that
Arthur
is
his
prisoner
?
Your
mind
is
all
as
youthful
as
your
blood
.
Now
hear
me
speak
with
a
prophetic
spirit
.
For
even
the
breath
of
what
I
mean
to
speak
Shall
blow
each
dust
,
each
straw
,
each
little
rub
,
Out
of
the
path
which
shall
directly
lead
Thy
foot
to
England’s
throne
.
And
therefore
mark
:
John
hath
seized
Arthur
,
and
it
cannot
be
That
,
whiles
warm
life
plays
in
that
infant’s
veins
,
The
misplaced
John
should
entertain
an
hour
,
One
minute
,
nay
,
one
quiet
breath
of
rest
.
A
scepter
snatched
with
an
unruly
hand
Must
be
as
boisterously
maintained
as
gained
.
And
he
that
stands
upon
a
slipp’ry
place
Makes
nice
of
no
vile
hold
to
stay
him
up
.
That
John
may
stand
,
then
Arthur
needs
must
fall
.
So
be
it
,
for
it
cannot
be
but
so
.
How
green
you
are
and
fresh
in
this
old
world
!
John
lays
you
plots
.
The
times
conspire
with
you
,
For
he
that
steeps
his
safety
in
true
blood
Shall
find
but
bloody
safety
,
and
untrue
.
This
act
so
evilly
borne
shall
cool
the
hearts
Of
all
his
people
and
freeze
up
their
zeal
,
That
none
so
small
advantage
shall
step
forth
To
check
his
reign
but
they
will
cherish
it
.
No
natural
exhalation
in
the
sky
,
No
scope
of
nature
,
no
distempered
day
,
No
common
wind
,
no
customèd
event
,
But
they
will
pluck
away
his
natural
cause
And
call
them
meteors
,
prodigies
,
and
signs
,
Abortives
,
presages
,
and
tongues
of
heaven
,
Plainly
denouncing
vengeance
upon
John
.
O
,
sir
,
when
he
shall
hear
of
your
approach
,
If
that
young
Arthur
be
not
gone
already
,
Even
at
that
news
he
dies
;
and
then
the
hearts
Of
all
his
people
shall
revolt
from
him
And
kiss
the
lips
of
unacquainted
change
,
And
pick
strong
matter
of
revolt
and
wrath
Out
of
the
bloody
fingers’
ends
of
John
.
Methinks
I
see
this
hurly
all
on
foot
;
And
,
O
,
what
better
matter
breeds
for
you
Than
I
have
named
!
The
bastard
Faulconbridge
Is
now
in
England
ransacking
the
Church
,
Offending
charity
.
If
but
a
dozen
French
Were
there
in
arms
,
they
would
be
as
a
call
To
train
ten
thousand
English
to
their
side
,
Or
as
a
little
snow
,
tumbled
about
,
Anon
becomes
a
mountain
.
O
noble
dauphin
,
Go
with
me
to
the
King
.
’Tis
wonderful
What
may
be
wrought
out
of
their
discontent
,
Now
that
their
souls
are
topful
of
offense
.
For
England
,
go
.
I
will
whet
on
the
King
.
Heat
me
these
irons
hot
,
and
look
thou
stand
Within
the
arras
.
When
I
strike
my
foot
Upon
the
bosom
of
the
ground
,
rush
forth
And
bind
the
boy
which
you
shall
find
with
me
Fast
to
the
chair
.
Be
heedful
.
Hence
,
and
watch
.
Uncleanly
scruples
fear
not
you
.
Look
to
’t
.
Young
lad
,
come
forth
.
I
have
to
say
with
you
.
Are
you
sick
,
Hubert
?
You
look
pale
today
.
In
sooth
,
I
would
you
were
a
little
sick
That
I
might
sit
all
night
and
watch
with
you
.
I
warrant
I
love
you
more
than
you
do
me
.
O
,
save
me
,
Hubert
,
save
me
!
My
eyes
are
out
Even
with
the
fierce
looks
of
these
bloody
men
.
Alas
,
what
need
you
be
so
boist’rous-rough
?
I
will
not
struggle
;
I
will
stand
stone-still
.
For
God’s
sake
,
Hubert
,
let
me
not
be
bound
!
Nay
,
hear
me
,
Hubert
!
Drive
these
men
away
,
And
I
will
sit
as
quiet
as
a
lamb
.
I
will
not
stir
nor
wince
nor
speak
a
word
Nor
look
upon
the
iron
angerly
.
Thrust
but
these
men
away
,
and
I’ll
forgive
you
,
Whatever
torment
you
do
put
me
to
.
Alas
,
I
then
have
chid
away
my
friend
!
He
hath
a
stern
look
but
a
gentle
heart
.
Let
him
come
back
,
that
his
compassion
may
Give
life
to
yours
.
Hubert
,
the
utterance
of
a
brace
of
tongues
Must
needs
want
pleading
for
a
pair
of
eyes
.
Let
me
not
hold
my
tongue
.
Let
me
not
,
Hubert
,
Or
,
Hubert
,
if
you
will
,
cut
out
my
tongue
,
So
I
may
keep
mine
eyes
.
O
,
spare
mine
eyes
,
Though
to
no
use
but
still
to
look
on
you
.
Lo
,
by
my
troth
,
the
instrument
is
cold
,
And
would
not
harm
me
.
O
,
now
you
look
like
Hubert
.
All
this
while
You
were
disguisèd
.
Here
once
again
we
sit
,
once
again
crowned
And
looked
upon
,
I
hope
,
with
cheerful
eyes
.
This
is
the
man
should
do
the
bloody
deed
.
He
showed
his
warrant
to
a
friend
of
mine
.
The
image
of
a
wicked
heinous
fault
Lives
in
his
eye
.
That
close
aspect
of
his
Doth
show
the
mood
of
a
much
troubled
breast
,
And
I
do
fearfully
believe
’tis
done
What
we
so
feared
he
had
a
charge
to
do
.
Stay
yet
,
Lord
Salisbury
.
I’ll
go
with
thee
And
find
th’
inheritance
of
this
poor
child
,
His
little
kingdom
of
a
forcèd
grave
.
That
blood
which
owed
the
breadth
of
all
this
isle
,
Three
foot
of
it
doth
hold
.
Bad
world
the
while
!
This
must
not
be
thus
borne
;
this
will
break
out
To
all
our
sorrows
,
and
ere
long
,
I
doubt
.
They
burn
in
indignation
.
I
repent
.
There
is
no
sure
foundation
set
on
blood
,
No
certain
life
achieved
by
others’
death
.
A
fearful
eye
thou
hast
.
Where
is
that
blood
That
I
have
seen
inhabit
in
those
cheeks
?
So
foul
a
sky
clears
not
without
a
storm
.
Pour
down
thy
weather
:
how
goes
all
in
France
?
Bear
with
me
,
cousin
,
for
I
was
amazed
Under
the
tide
,
but
now
I
breathe
again
Aloft
the
flood
and
can
give
audience
To
any
tongue
,
speak
it
of
what
it
will
.
It
is
the
curse
of
kings
to
be
attended
By
slaves
that
take
their
humors
for
a
warrant
To
break
within
the
bloody
house
of
life
,
And
on
the
winking
of
authority
To
understand
a
law
,
to
know
the
meaning
Of
dangerous
majesty
,
when
perchance
it
frowns
More
upon
humor
than
advised
respect
.
O
,
when
the
last
accompt
twixt
heaven
and
Earth
earth
Is
to
be
made
,
then
shall
this
hand
and
seal
Witness
against
us
to
damnation
!
How
oft
the
sight
of
means
to
do
ill
deeds
Make
deeds
ill
done
!
Hadst
not
thou
been
by
,
A
fellow
by
the
hand
of
nature
marked
,
Quoted
,
and
signed
to
do
a
deed
of
shame
,
This
murder
had
not
come
into
my
mind
.
But
taking
note
of
thy
abhorred
aspect
,
Finding
thee
fit
for
bloody
villainy
,
Apt
,
liable
to
be
employed
in
danger
,
I
faintly
broke
with
thee
of
Arthur’s
death
;
And
thou
,
to
be
endearèd
to
a
king
,
Made
it
no
conscience
to
destroy
a
prince
.
Hadst
thou
but
shook
thy
head
or
made
a
pause
When
I
spake
darkly
what
I
purposèd
,
Or
turned
an
eye
of
doubt
upon
my
face
,
As
bid
me
tell
my
tale
in
express
words
,
Deep
shame
had
struck
me
dumb
,
made
me
break
off
,
And
those
thy
fears
might
have
wrought
fears
in
me
.
But
thou
didst
understand
me
by
my
signs
And
didst
in
signs
again
parley
with
sin
,
Yea
,
without
stop
didst
let
thy
heart
consent
And
consequently
thy
rude
hand
to
act
The
deed
which
both
our
tongues
held
vile
to
name
.
Out
of
my
sight
,
and
never
see
me
more
.
My
nobles
leave
me
,
and
my
state
is
braved
,
Even
at
my
gates
,
with
ranks
of
foreign
powers
.
Nay
,
in
the
body
of
this
fleshly
land
,
This
kingdom
,
this
confine
of
blood
and
breath
,
Hostility
and
civil
tumult
reigns
Between
my
conscience
and
my
cousin’s
death
.
Arm
you
against
your
other
enemies
.
I’ll
make
a
peace
between
your
soul
and
you
.
Young
Arthur
is
alive
.
This
hand
of
mine
Is
yet
a
maiden
and
an
innocent
hand
,
Not
painted
with
the
crimson
spots
of
blood
.
Within
this
bosom
never
entered
yet
The
dreadful
motion
of
a
murderous
thought
,
And
you
have
slandered
nature
in
my
form
,
Which
,
howsoever
rude
exteriorly
,
Is
yet
the
cover
of
a
fairer
mind
Than
to
be
butcher
of
an
innocent
child
.
Doth
Arthur
live
?
O
,
haste
thee
to
the
peers
,
Throw
this
report
on
their
incensèd
rage
,
And
make
them
tame
to
their
obedience
.
Forgive
the
comment
that
my
passion
made
Upon
thy
feature
,
for
my
rage
was
blind
,
And
foul
imaginary
eyes
of
blood
Presented
thee
more
hideous
than
thou
art
.
O
,
answer
not
,
but
to
my
closet
bring
The
angry
lords
with
all
expedient
haste
.
I
conjure
thee
but
slowly
;
run
more
fast
.
The
King
hath
dispossessed
himself
of
us
.
We
will
not
line
his
thin
bestainèd
cloak
With
our
pure
honors
,
nor
attend
the
foot
That
leaves
the
print
of
blood
where’er
it
walks
.
Return
,
and
tell
him
so
.
We
know
the
worst
.
Sir
Richard
,
what
think
you
?
You
have
beheld
.
Or
have
you
read
or
heard
,
or
could
you
think
,
Or
do
you
almost
think
,
although
you
see
,
That
you
do
see
?
Could
thought
,
without
this
object
,
Form
such
another
?
This
is
the
very
top
,
The
height
,
the
crest
,
or
crest
unto
the
crest
,
Of
murder’s
arms
.
This
is
the
bloodiest
shame
,
The
wildest
savagery
,
the
vilest
stroke
That
ever
wall-eyed
wrath
or
staring
rage
Presented
to
the
tears
of
soft
remorse
.
All
murders
past
do
stand
excused
in
this
.
And
this
,
so
sole
and
so
unmatchable
,
Shall
give
a
holiness
,
a
purity
,
To
the
yet
unbegotten
sin
of
times
And
prove
a
deadly
bloodshed
but
a
jest
,
Exampled
by
this
heinous
spectacle
.
It
is
a
damnèd
and
a
bloody
work
,
The
graceless
action
of
a
heavy
hand
,
If
that
it
be
the
work
of
any
hand
.
Now
keep
your
holy
word
.
Go
meet
the
French
,
And
from
his
Holiness
use
all
your
power
To
stop
their
marches
’fore
we
are
inflamed
.
Our
discontented
counties
do
revolt
,
Our
people
quarrel
with
obedience
,
Swearing
allegiance
and
the
love
of
soul
To
stranger
blood
,
to
foreign
royalty
.
This
inundation
of
mistempered
humor
Rests
by
you
only
to
be
qualified
.
Then
pause
not
,
for
the
present
time’s
so
sick
That
present
med’cine
must
be
ministered
,
Or
overthrow
incurable
ensues
.
So
,
on
my
soul
,
he
did
,
for
aught
he
knew
.
But
wherefore
do
you
droop
?
Why
look
you
sad
?
Be
great
in
act
,
as
you
have
been
in
thought
.
Let
not
the
world
see
fear
and
sad
distrust
Govern
the
motion
of
a
kingly
eye
.
Be
stirring
as
the
time
;
be
fire
with
fire
;
Threaten
the
threat’ner
,
and
outface
the
brow
Of
bragging
horror
.
So
shall
inferior
eyes
,
That
borrow
their
behaviors
from
the
great
,
Grow
great
by
your
example
and
put
on
The
dauntless
spirit
of
resolution
.
Away
,
and
glister
like
the
god
of
war
When
he
intendeth
to
become
the
field
.
Show
boldness
and
aspiring
confidence
.
What
,
shall
they
seek
the
lion
in
his
den
And
fright
him
there
?
And
make
him
tremble
there
?
O
,
let
it
not
be
said
!
Forage
,
and
run
To
meet
displeasure
farther
from
the
doors
,
And
grapple
with
him
ere
he
come
so
nigh
.
Upon
our
sides
it
never
shall
be
broken
.
And
,
noble
dauphin
,
albeit
we
swear
A
voluntary
zeal
and
unurged
faith
To
your
proceedings
,
yet
believe
me
,
prince
,
I
am
not
glad
that
such
a
sore
of
time
Should
seek
a
plaster
by
contemned
revolt
And
heal
the
inveterate
canker
of
one
wound
By
making
many
.
O
,
it
grieves
my
soul
That
I
must
draw
this
metal
from
my
side
To
be
a
widow-maker
!
O
,
and
there
Where
honorable
rescue
and
defense
Cries
out
upon
the
name
of
Salisbury
!
But
such
is
the
infection
of
the
time
That
for
the
health
and
physic
of
our
right
,
We
cannot
deal
but
with
the
very
hand
Of
stern
injustice
and
confusèd
wrong
.
And
is
’t
not
pity
,
O
my
grievèd
friends
,
That
we
,
the
sons
and
children
of
this
isle
,
Was
born
to
see
so
sad
an
hour
as
this
,
Wherein
we
step
after
a
stranger
,
march
Upon
her
gentle
bosom
,
and
fill
up
Her
enemies’
ranks
?
I
must
withdraw
and
weep
Upon
the
spot
of
this
enforcèd
cause
,
To
grace
the
gentry
of
a
land
remote
,
And
follow
unacquainted
colors
here
.
What
,
here
?
O
nation
,
that
thou
couldst
remove
,
That
Neptune’s
arms
,
who
clippeth
thee
about
,
Would
bear
thee
from
the
knowledge
of
thyself
And
grapple
thee
unto
a
pagan
shore
,
Where
these
two
Christian
armies
might
combine
The
blood
of
malice
in
a
vein
of
league
,
And
not
to
spend
it
so
unneighborly
.
A
noble
temper
dost
thou
show
in
this
,
And
great
affections
wrestling
in
thy
bosom
Doth
make
an
earthquake
of
nobility
.
O
,
what
a
noble
combat
hast
thou
fought
Between
compulsion
and
a
brave
respect
!
Let
me
wipe
off
this
honorable
dew
That
silverly
doth
progress
on
thy
cheeks
.
My
heart
hath
melted
at
a
lady’s
tears
,
Being
an
ordinary
inundation
,
But
this
effusion
of
such
manly
drops
,
This
shower
,
blown
up
by
tempest
of
the
soul
,
Startles
mine
eyes
and
makes
me
more
amazed
Than
had
I
seen
the
vaulty
top
of
heaven
Figured
quite
o’er
with
burning
meteors
.
Lift
up
thy
brow
,
renownèd
Salisbury
,
And
with
a
great
heart
heave
away
this
storm
.
Commend
these
waters
to
those
baby
eyes
That
never
saw
the
giant
world
enraged
,
Nor
met
with
fortune
other
than
at
feasts
Full
warm
of
blood
,
of
mirth
,
of
gossiping
.
Come
,
come
;
for
thou
shalt
thrust
thy
hand
as
deep
Into
the
purse
of
rich
prosperity
As
Louis
himself
.
—
So
,
nobles
,
shall
you
all
,
That
knit
your
sinews
to
the
strength
of
mine
.
And
even
there
,
methinks
,
an
angel
spake
.
Look
where
the
holy
legate
comes
apace
To
give
us
warrant
from
the
hand
of
God
,
And
on
our
actions
set
the
name
of
right
With
holy
breath
.
You
look
but
on
the
outside
of
this
work
.
Outside
or
inside
,
I
will
not
return
Till
my
attempt
so
much
be
glorified
As
to
my
ample
hope
was
promisèd
Before
I
drew
this
gallant
head
of
war
And
culled
these
fiery
spirits
from
the
world
To
outlook
conquest
and
to
win
renown
Even
in
the
jaws
of
danger
and
of
death
.
What
lusty
trumpet
thus
doth
summon
us
?
By
all
the
blood
that
ever
fury
breathed
,
The
youth
says
well
!
Now
hear
our
English
king
,
For
thus
his
royalty
doth
speak
in
me
:
He
is
prepared
—
and
reason
too
he
should
.
This
apish
and
unmannerly
approach
,
This
harnessed
masque
and
unadvisèd
revel
,
This
unheard
sauciness
and
boyish
troops
,
The
King
doth
smile
at
,
and
is
well
prepared
To
whip
this
dwarfish
war
,
these
pigmy
arms
,
From
out
the
circle
of
his
territories
.
That
hand
which
had
the
strength
,
even
at
your
door
,
To
cudgel
you
and
make
you
take
the
hatch
,
To
dive
like
buckets
in
concealèd
wells
,
To
crouch
in
litter
of
your
stable
planks
,
To
lie
like
pawns
locked
up
in
chests
and
trunks
,
To
hug
with
swine
,
to
seek
sweet
safety
out
In
vaults
and
prisons
,
and
to
thrill
and
shake
Even
at
the
crying
of
your
nation’s
crow
,
Thinking
this
voice
an
armèd
Englishman
—
Shall
that
victorious
hand
be
feebled
here
That
in
your
chambers
gave
you
chastisement
?
No
!
Know
the
gallant
monarch
is
in
arms
,
And
like
an
eagle
o’er
his
aerie
towers
To
souse
annoyance
that
comes
near
his
nest
.
—
And
you
degenerate
,
you
ingrate
revolts
,
You
bloody
Neroes
,
ripping
up
the
womb
Of
your
dear
mother
England
,
blush
for
shame
!
For
your
own
ladies
and
pale-visaged
maids
Like
Amazons
come
tripping
after
drums
,
Their
thimbles
into
armèd
gauntlets
change
,
Their
needles
to
lances
,
and
their
gentle
hearts
To
fierce
and
bloody
inclination
.
We
do
believe
thee
,
and
beshrew
my
soul
But
I
do
love
the
favor
and
the
form
Of
this
most
fair
occasion
,
by
the
which
We
will
untread
the
steps
of
damnèd
flight
,
And
like
a
bated
and
retirèd
flood
,
Leaving
our
rankness
and
irregular
course
,
Stoop
low
within
those
bounds
we
have
o’erlooked
And
calmly
run
on
in
obedience
Even
to
our
ocean
,
to
our
great
King
John
.
My
arm
shall
give
thee
help
to
bear
thee
hence
,
For
I
do
see
the
cruel
pangs
of
death
Right
in
thine
eye
.
—
Away
,
my
friends
!
New
flight
,
And
happy
newness
,
that
intends
old
right
.
The
sun
of
heaven
,
methought
,
was
loath
to
set
,
But
stayed
and
made
the
western
welkin
blush
,
When
English
measured
backward
their
own
ground
In
faint
retire
.
O
,
bravely
came
we
off
,
When
with
a
volley
of
our
needless
shot
,
After
such
bloody
toil
,
we
bid
good
night
And
wound
our
tott’ring
colors
clearly
up
,
Last
in
the
field
and
almost
lords
of
it
.
It
is
too
late
.
The
life
of
all
his
blood
Is
touched
corruptibly
,
and
his
pure
brain
,
Which
some
suppose
the
soul’s
frail
dwelling-house
,
Doth
,
by
the
idle
comments
that
it
makes
,
Foretell
the
ending
of
mortality
.
The
salt
in
them
is
hot
.
Within
me
is
a
hell
,
and
there
the
poison
Is
,
as
a
fiend
,
confined
to
tyrannize
On
unreprievable
,
condemnèd
blood
.
The
Dauphin
is
preparing
hitherward
,
Where
God
He
knows
how
we
shall
answer
him
.
For
in
a
night
the
best
part
of
my
power
,
As
I
upon
advantage
did
remove
,
Were
in
the
Washes
all
unwarily
Devourèd
by
the
unexpected
flood
.
Let
it
be
so
.
Thy
truth
,
then
,
be
thy
dower
,
For
by
the
sacred
radiance
of
the
sun
,
The
mysteries
of
Hecate
and
the
night
,
By
all
the
operation
of
the
orbs
From
whom
we
do
exist
and
cease
to
be
,
Here
I
disclaim
all
my
paternal
care
,
Propinquity
,
and
property
of
blood
,
And
as
a
stranger
to
my
heart
and
me
Hold
thee
from
this
forever
.
The
barbarous
Scythian
,
Or
he
that
makes
his
generation
messes
To
gorge
his
appetite
,
shall
to
my
bosom
Be
as
well
neighbored
,
pitied
,
and
relieved
As
thou
my
sometime
daughter
.
Is
it
but
this
—
a
tardiness
in
nature
Which
often
leaves
the
history
unspoke
That
it
intends
to
do
?
—
My
lord
of
Burgundy
,
What
say
you
to
the
lady
?
Love’s
not
love
When
it
is
mingled
with
regards
that
stands
Aloof
from
th’
entire
point
.
Will
you
have
her
?
She
is
herself
a
dowry
.
The
best
and
soundest
of
his
time
hath
been
but
rash
.
Then
must
we
look
from
his
age
to
receive
not
alone
the
imperfections
of
long-engraffed
condition
,
but
therewithal
the
unruly
waywardness
that
infirm
and
choleric
years
bring
with
them
.
I
beseech
you
,
sir
,
pardon
me
.
It
is
a
letter
from
my
brother
that
I
have
not
all
o’erread
;
and
for
so
much
as
I
have
perused
,
I
find
it
not
fit
for
your
o’erlooking
.
And
let
his
knights
have
colder
looks
among
you
.
What
grows
of
it
,
no
matter
.
Advise
your
fellows
so
.
I
would
breed
from
hence
occasions
,
and
I
shall
,
That
I
may
speak
.
I’ll
write
straight
to
my
sister
To
hold
my
very
course
.
Prepare
for
dinner
.
Thou
but
remembrest
me
of
mine
own
conception
.
I
have
perceived
a
most
faint
neglect
of
late
,
which
I
have
rather
blamed
as
mine
own
jealous
curiosity
than
as
a
very
pretense
and
purpose
of
unkindness
.
I
will
look
further
into
’t
.
But
where’s
my
Fool
?
I
have
not
seen
him
this
two
days
.
Do you bandy looks with me , you rascal ?
I’ll
tell
thee
.
Life
and
death
!
I
am
ashamed
That
thou
hast
power
to
shake
my
manhood
thus
,
That
these
hot
tears
,
which
break
from
me
perforce
,
Should
make
thee
worth
them
.
Blasts
and
fogs
upon
thee
!
Th’
untented
woundings
of
a
father’s
curse
Pierce
every
sense
about
thee
!
Old
fond
eyes
,
Beweep
this
cause
again
,
I’ll
pluck
you
out
And
cast
you
,
with
the
waters
that
you
loose
,
To
temper
clay
.
Yea
,
is
’t
come
to
this
?
Ha
!
Let
it
be
so
.
I
have
another
daughter
Who
,
I
am
sure
,
is
kind
and
comfortable
.
When
she
shall
hear
this
of
thee
,
with
her
nails
She’ll
flay
thy
wolvish
visage
.
Thou
shalt
find
That
I’ll
resume
the
shape
which
thou
dost
think
I
have
cast
off
forever
.
I
hear
my
father
coming
.
Pardon
me
.
In
cunning
I
must
draw
my
sword
upon
you
.
Draw
.
Seem
to
defend
yourself
.
Now
,
quit
you
well
.
Yield
!
Come
before
my
father
!
Light
,
hoa
,
here
!
Fly
,
brother
.
—
Torches
,
torches
!
—
So
,
farewell
.
Some
blood
drawn
on
me
would
beget
opinion
Of
my
more
fierce
endeavor
.
I
have
seen
drunkards
Do
more
than
this
in
sport
.
Father
,
father
!
Stop
,
stop
!
No
help
?
Look
,
sir
,
I
bleed
.
That
such
a
slave
as
this
should
wear
a
sword
,
Who
wears
no
honesty
.
Such
smiling
rogues
as
these
,
Like
rats
,
oft
bite
the
holy
cords
atwain
Which
are
too
intrinse
t’
unloose
;
smooth
every
passion
That
in
the
natures
of
their
lords
rebel
—
,
Being
oil
to
fire
,
snow
to
the
colder
moods
—
,
Renege
,
affirm
,
and
turn
their
halcyon
beaks
With
every
gale
and
vary
of
their
masters
,
Knowing
naught
,
like
dogs
,
but
following
.
—
A
plague
upon
your
epileptic
visage
!
Smile
you
my
speeches
,
as
I
were
a
fool
?
Goose
,
if
I
had
you
upon
Sarum
plain
,
I’d
drive
you
cackling
home
to
Camelot
.
My
lord
,
when
at
their
home
I
did
commend
your
Highness’
letters
to
them
,
Ere
I
was
risen
from
the
place
that
showed
My
duty
kneeling
,
came
there
a
reeking
post
,
Stewed
in
his
haste
,
half
breathless
,
panting
forth
From
Goneril
his
mistress
salutations
;
Delivered
letters
,
spite
of
intermission
,
Which
presently
they
read
;
on
whose
contents
They
summoned
up
their
meiny
,
straight
took
horse
,
Commanded
me
to
follow
and
attend
The
leisure
of
their
answer
,
gave
me
cold
looks
;
And
meeting
here
the
other
messenger
,
Whose
welcome
,
I
perceived
,
had
poisoned
mine
,
Being
the
very
fellow
which
of
late
Displayed
so
saucily
against
your
Highness
,
Having
more
man
than
wit
about
me
,
drew
.
He
raised
the
house
with
loud
and
coward
cries
.
Your
son
and
daughter
found
this
trespass
worth
The
shame
which
here
it
suffers
.
The
King
would
speak
with
Cornwall
.
The
dear
father
Would
with
his
daughter
speak
,
commands
,
tends
service
.
Are
they
informed
of
this
?
My
breath
and
blood
!
Fiery
?
The
fiery
duke
?
Tell
the
hot
duke
that
—
No
,
but
not
yet
.
Maybe
he
is
not
well
.
Infirmity
doth
still
neglect
all
office
Whereto
our
health
is
bound
.
We
are
not
ourselves
When
nature
,
being
oppressed
,
commands
the
mind
To
suffer
with
the
body
.
I’ll
forbear
,
And
am
fallen
out
with
my
more
headier
will
,
To
take
the
indisposed
and
sickly
fit
For
the
sound
man
.
Death
on
my
state
!
Wherefore
Should
he
sit
here
?
This
act
persuades
me
That
this
remotion
of
the
Duke
and
her
Is
practice
only
.
Give
me
my
servant
forth
.
Go
tell
the
Duke
and
’s
wife
I’d
speak
with
them
.
Now
,
presently
,
bid
them
come
forth
and
hear
me
,
Or
at
their
chamber
door
I’ll
beat
the
drum
Till
it
cry
sleep
to
death
.
Never
,
Regan
.
She
hath
abated
me
of
half
my
train
,
Looked
black
upon
me
,
struck
me
with
her
tongue
Most
serpentlike
upon
the
very
heart
.
All
the
stored
vengeances
of
heaven
fall
On
her
ingrateful
top
!
Strike
her
young
bones
,
You
taking
airs
,
with
lameness
!
Who
stocked
my
servant
?
Regan
,
I
have
good
hope
Thou
didst
not
know
on
’t
.
Who
comes
here
?
O
heavens
,
If
you
do
love
old
men
,
if
your
sweet
sway
Allow
obedience
,
if
you
yourselves
are
old
,
Make
it
your
cause
.
Send
down
and
take
my
part
.
Art
not
ashamed
to
look
upon
this
beard
?
O
Regan
,
will
you
take
her
by
the
hand
?
Return
to
her
?
And
fifty
men
dismissed
?
No
!
Rather
I
abjure
all
roofs
,
and
choose
To
wage
against
the
enmity
o’
th’
air
,
To
be
a
comrade
with
the
wolf
and
owl
,
Necessity’s
sharp
pinch
.
Return
with
her
?
Why
the
hot-blooded
France
,
that
dowerless
took
Our
youngest
born
—
I
could
as
well
be
brought
To
knee
his
throne
and
,
squire-like
,
pension
beg
To
keep
base
life
afoot
.
Return
with
her
?
Persuade
me
rather
to
be
slave
and
sumpter
To
this
detested
groom
.
I
prithee
,
daughter
,
do
not
make
me
mad
.
I
will
not
trouble
thee
,
my
child
.
Farewell
.
We’ll
no
more
meet
,
no
more
see
one
another
.
But
yet
thou
art
my
flesh
,
my
blood
,
my
daughter
,
Or
,
rather
,
a
disease
that’s
in
my
flesh
,
Which
I
must
needs
call
mine
.
Thou
art
a
boil
,
A
plague-sore
or
embossèd
carbuncle
In
my
corrupted
blood
.
But
I’ll
not
chide
thee
.
Let
shame
come
when
it
will
;
I
do
not
call
it
.
I
do
not
bid
the
thunder-bearer
shoot
,
Nor
tell
tales
of
thee
to
high-judging
Jove
.
Mend
when
thou
canst
.
Be
better
at
thy
leisure
.
I
can
be
patient
.
I
can
stay
with
Regan
,
I
and
my
hundred
knights
.
Not
altogether
so
.
I
looked
not
for
you
yet
,
nor
am
provided
For
your
fit
welcome
.
Give
ear
,
sir
,
to
my
sister
,
For
those
that
mingle
reason
with
your
passion
Must
be
content
to
think
you
old
,
and
so
—
But
she
knows
what
she
does
.
Those
wicked
creatures
yet
do
look
well-favored
When
others
are
more
wicked
.
Not
being
the
worst
Stands
in
some
rank
of
praise
.
I’ll
go
with
thee
.
Thy
fifty
yet
doth
double
five-and-twenty
,
And
thou
art
twice
her
love
.
Sir
,
I
do
know
you
And
dare
upon
the
warrant
of
my
note
Commend
a
dear
thing
to
you
.
There
is
division
,
Although
as
yet
the
face
of
it
is
covered
With
mutual
cunning
,
’twixt
Albany
and
Cornwall
,
Who
have
—
as
who
have
not
,
that
their
great
stars
Throned
and
set
high
?
—
servants
,
who
seem
no
less
,
Which
are
to
France
the
spies
and
speculations
Intelligent
of
our
state
.
But
true
it
is
,
From
from
France
there
comes
a
power
Into
this
scattered
kingdom
,
who
already
,
Wise
in
our
negligence
,
have
secret
feet
In
some
of
our
best
ports
and
are
at
point
To
show
their
open
banner
.
Now
to
you
:
If
on
my
credit
you
dare
build
so
far
To
make
your
speed
to
Dover
,
you
shall
find
Some
that
will
thank
you
,
making
just
report
Of
how
unnatural
and
bemadding
sorrow
The
King
hath
cause
to
plain
:
.
what
What
hath
been
seen
,
Either
in
snuffs
and
packings
of
the
dukes
,
Or
the
hard
rein
which
both
of
them
hath
borne
Against
the
old
kind
king
,
or
something
deeper
,
Whereof
perchance
these
are
but
furnishings
.
—
I
am
a
gentleman
of
blood
and
breeding
,
And
from
some
knowledge
and
assurance
offer
This
office
to
you
.
Let
the
great
gods
That
keep
this
dreadful
pudder
o’er
our
heads
Find
out
their
enemies
now
.
Tremble
,
thou
wretch
,
That
hast
within
thee
undivulgèd
crimes
Unwhipped
of
justice
.
Hide
thee
,
thou
bloody
hand
,
Thou
perjured
,
and
thou
simular
of
virtue
That
art
incestuous
.
Caitiff
,
to
pieces
shake
,
That
under
covert
and
convenient
seeming
Has
practiced
on
man’s
life
.
Close
pent-up
guilts
,
Rive
your
concealing
continents
and
cry
These
dreadful
summoners
grace
.
I
am
a
man
More
sinned
against
than
sinning
.
Go
to
;
say
you
nothing
.
There
is
division
between
the
dukes
,
and
a
worse
matter
than
that
.
I
have
received
a
letter
this
night
;
’tis
dangerous
to
be
spoken
;
I
have
locked
the
letter
in
my
closet
.
These
injuries
the
King
now
bears
will
be
revenged
home
;
there
is
part
of
a
power
already
footed
.
We
must
incline
to
the
King
.
I
will
look
him
and
privily
relieve
him
.
Go
you
and
maintain
talk
with
the
Duke
,
that
my
charity
be
not
of
him
perceived
.
If
he
ask
for
me
,
I
am
ill
and
gone
to
bed
.
If
I
die
for
it
,
as
no
less
is
threatened
me
,
the
King
my
old
master
must
be
relieved
.
There
is
strange
things
toward
,
Edmund
.
Pray
you
,
be
careful
.
Prithee
,
go
in
thyself
.
Seek
thine
own
ease
.
This
tempest
will
not
give
me
leave
to
ponder
On
things
would
hurt
me
more
.
But
I’ll
go
in
.
—
In
,
boy
;
go
first
.
—
You
houseless
poverty
—
Nay
,
get
thee
in
.
I’ll
pray
,
and
then
I’ll
sleep
.
Poor
naked
wretches
,
wheresoe’er
you
are
,
That
bide
the
pelting
of
this
pitiless
storm
,
How
shall
your
houseless
heads
and
unfed
sides
,
Your
looped
and
windowed
raggedness
defend
you
From
seasons
such
as
these
?
O
,
I
have
ta’en
Too
little
care
of
this
.
Take
physic
,
pomp
.
Expose
thyself
to
feel
what
wretches
feel
,
That
thou
may’st
shake
the
superflux
to
them
And
show
the
heavens
more
just
.
Pillicock
sat
on
Pillicock
Hill
.
Alow
,
alow
,
loo
,
loo
.
A
servingman
,
proud
in
heart
and
mind
,
that
curled
my
hair
,
wore
gloves
in
my
cap
,
served
the
lust
of
my
mistress’
heart
and
did
the
act
of
darkness
with
her
,
swore
as
many
oaths
as
I
spake
words
and
broke
them
in
the
sweet
face
of
heaven
;
one
that
slept
in
the
contriving
of
lust
and
waked
to
do
it
.
Wine
loved
I
deeply
,
dice
dearly
,
and
in
woman
out-paramoured
the
Turk
.
False
of
heart
,
light
of
ear
,
bloody
of
hand
;
hog
in
sloth
,
fox
in
stealth
,
wolf
in
greediness
,
dog
in
madness
,
lion
in
prey
.
Let
not
the
creaking
of
shoes
nor
the
rustling
of
silks
betray
thy
poor
heart
to
woman
.
Keep
thy
foot
out
of
brothels
,
thy
hand
out
of
plackets
,
thy
pen
from
lenders’
books
,
and
defy
the
foul
fiend
.
Still
through
the
hawthorn
blows
the
cold
wind
;
says
suum
,
mun
,
nonny
.
Dolphin
my
boy
,
boy
,
sessa
!
Let
him
trot
by
.
Prithee
,
nuncle
,
be
contented
.
’Tis
a
naughty
night
to
swim
in
.
Now
,
a
little
fire
in
a
wild
field
were
like
an
old
lecher’s
heart
—
a
small
spark
,
all
the
rest
on
’s
body
cold
.
Look
,
here
comes
a
walking
fire
.
Our
flesh
and
blood
,
my
lord
,
is
grown
so
vile
That
it
doth
hate
what
gets
it
.
Canst
thou
blame
him
?
His
daughters
seek
his
death
.
Ah
,
that
good
Kent
!
He
said
it
would
be
thus
,
poor
banished
man
.
Thou
sayest
the
King
grows
mad
;
I’ll
tell
thee
,
friend
,
I
am
almost
mad
myself
.
I
had
a
son
,
Now
outlawed
from
my
blood
.
He
sought
my
life
But
lately
,
very
late
.
I
loved
him
,
friend
,
No
father
his
son
dearer
.
True
to
tell
thee
,
The
grief
hath
crazed
my
wits
.
What
a
night’s
this
!
—
I
do
beseech
your
Grace
—
Child
Rowland
to
the
dark
tower
came
.
His
word
was
still
Fie
,
foh
,
and
fum
,
I
smell
the
blood
of
a
British
man
.
If
I
find
him
comforting
the
King
,
it
will
stuff
his
suspicion
more
fully
.
—
I
will
persevere
in
my
course
of
loyalty
,
though
the
conflict
be
sore
between
that
and
my
blood
.
Look
where
he
stands
and
glares
!
—
Want’st
thou
eyes
at
trial
,
madam
?
Come
o’er
the
burn
,
Bessy
,
to
me
—
And
here’s
another
whose
warped
looks
proclaim
What
store
her
heart
is
made
on
.
Stop
her
there
!
Arms
,
arms
,
sword
,
fire
!
Corruption
in
the
place
!
False
justicer
,
why
hast
thou
let
her
’scape
?
Go
thrust
him
out
at
gates
,
and
let
him
smell
His
way
to
Dover
.
How
is
’t
,
my
lord
?
How
look
you
?
There
is
a
cliff
,
whose
high
and
bending
head
Looks
fearfully
in
the
confinèd
deep
.
Bring
me
but
to
the
very
brim
of
it
,
And
I’ll
repair
the
misery
thou
dost
bear
With
something
rich
about
me
.
From
that
place
I
shall
no
leading
need
.
Thou
changèd
and
self-covered
thing
,
for
shame
Bemonster
not
thy
feature
.
Were
’t
my
fitness
To
let
these
hands
obey
my
blood
,
They
are
apt
enough
to
dislocate
and
tear
Thy
flesh
and
bones
.
Howe’er
thou
art
a
fiend
,
A
woman’s
shape
doth
shield
thee
.
I
know
your
lady
does
not
love
her
husband
;
I
am
sure
of
that
;
and
at
her
late
being
here
,
She
gave
strange
eliads
and
most
speaking
looks
To
noble
Edmund
.
I
know
you
are
of
her
bosom
.
You
do
climb
up
it
now
.
Look
how
we
labor
.
Come
on
,
sir
.
Here’s
the
place
.
Stand
still
.
How
fearful
And
dizzy
’tis
to
cast
one’s
eyes
so
low
!
The
crows
and
choughs
that
wing
the
midway
air
Show
scarce
so
gross
as
beetles
.
Halfway
down
Hangs
one
that
gathers
samphire
—
dreadful
trade
;
Methinks
he
seems
no
bigger
than
his
head
.
The
fishermen
that
walk
upon
the
beach
Appear
like
mice
,
and
yond
tall
anchoring
bark
Diminished
to
her
cock
,
her
cock
a
buoy
Almost
too
small
for
sight
.
The
murmuring
surge
That
on
th’
unnumbered
idle
pebble
chafes
Cannot
be
heard
so
high
.
I’ll
look
no
more
Lest
my
brain
turn
and
the
deficient
sight
Topple
down
headlong
.
From
the
dread
summit
of
this
chalky
bourn
.
Look
up
a-height
.
The
shrill-gorged
lark
so
far
Cannot
be
seen
or
heard
.
Do
but
look
up
.
Nature’s
above
art
in
that
respect
.
There’s
your
press-money
.
That
fellow
handles
his
bow
like
a
crowkeeper
.
Draw
me
a
clothier’s
yard
.
Look
,
look
,
a
mouse
!
Peace
,
peace
!
This
piece
of
toasted
cheese
will
do
’t
.
There’s
my
gauntlet
;
I’ll
prove
it
on
a
giant
.
Bring
up
the
brown
bills
.
O
,
well
flown
,
bird
!
I’
th’
clout
,
i’
th’
clout
!
Hewgh
!
Give
the
word
.
What
,
art
mad
?
A
man
may
see
how
this
world
goes
with
no
eyes
.
Look
with
thine
ears
.
See
how
yond
justice
rails
upon
yond
simple
thief
.
Hark
in
thine
ear
.
Change
places
and
,
handy-dandy
,
which
is
the
justice
,
which
is
the
thief
?
Thou
hast
seen
a
farmer’s
dog
bark
at
a
beggar
?
And
the
creature
run
from
the
cur
?
There
thou
might’st
behold
the
great
image
of
authority
:
a
dog’s
obeyed
in
office
.
Thou
rascal
beadle
,
hold
thy
bloody
hand
!
Why
dost
thou
lash
that
whore
?
Strip
thy
own
back
.
Thou
hotly
lusts
to
use
her
in
that
kind
For
which
thou
whipp’st
her
.
The
usurer
hangs
the
cozener
.
Through
tattered
clothes
small
vices
do
appear
.
Robes
and
furred
gowns
hide
all
.
Plate
sin
with
gold
,
And
the
strong
lance
of
justice
hurtless
breaks
.
Arm
it
in
rags
,
a
pygmy’s
straw
does
pierce
it
.
None
does
offend
,
none
,
I
say
,
none
;
I’ll
able
’em
.
Take
that
of
me
,
my
friend
,
who
have
the
power
To
seal
th’
accuser’s
lips
.
Get
thee
glass
eyes
,
And
like
a
scurvy
politician
Seem
to
see
the
things
thou
dost
not
.
Now
,
now
,
now
,
now
.
Pull
off
my
boots
.
Harder
,
harder
.
So
.
O
,
look
upon
me
,
sir
,
And
hold
your
hand
in
benediction
o’er
me
.
No
,
sir
,
you
must
not
kneel
.
Report
is
changeable
.
’Tis
time
to
look
about
.
The
powers
of
the
kingdom
approach
apace
.
The
arbitrament
is
like
to
be
bloody
.
Fare
you
well
,
sir
.
I
had
rather
lose
the
battle
than
that
sister
Should
loosen
him
and
me
.
Why
,
fare
thee
well
.
I
will
o’erlook
thy
paper
.
Holla
,
holla
!
That
eye
that
told
you
so
looked
but
asquint
.
Half-blooded fellow , yes .
In
wisdom
I
should
ask
thy
name
,
But
since
thy
outside
looks
so
fair
and
warlike
,
And
that
thy
tongue
some
say
of
breeding
breathes
,
What
safe
and
nicely
I
might
well
delay
By
rule
of
knighthood
,
I
disdain
and
spurn
.
Back
do
I
toss
these
treasons
to
thy
head
,
With
the
hell-hated
lie
o’erwhelm
thy
heart
,
Which
,
for
they
yet
glance
by
and
scarcely
bruise
,
This
sword
of
mine
shall
give
them
instant
way
,
Where
they
shall
rest
forever
.
Trumpets
,
speak
!
Let’s
exchange
charity
.
I
am
no
less
in
blood
than
thou
art
,
Edmund
;
If
more
,
the
more
th’
hast
wronged
me
.
My
name
is
Edgar
and
thy
father’s
son
.
The
gods
are
just
,
and
of
our
pleasant
vices
Make
instruments
to
plague
us
.
The
dark
and
vicious
place
where
thee
he
got
Cost
him
his
eyes
.
By
nursing
them
,
my
lord
.
List
a
brief
tale
,
And
when
’tis
told
,
O
,
that
my
heart
would
burst
!
The
bloody
proclamation
to
escape
That
followed
me
so
near
—
O
,
our
lives’
sweetness
,
That
we
the
pain
of
death
would
hourly
die
Rather
than
die
at
once
!
—
taught
me
to
shift
Into
a
madman’s
rags
,
t’
assume
a
semblance
That
very
dogs
disdained
,
and
in
this
habit
Met
I
my
father
with
his
bleeding
rings
,
Their
precious
stones
new
lost
;
became
his
guide
,
Led
him
,
begged
for
him
,
saved
him
from
despair
.
Never
—
O
fault
!
—
revealed
myself
unto
him
Until
some
half
hour
past
,
when
I
was
armed
.
Not
sure
,
though
hoping
of
this
good
success
,
I
asked
his
blessing
,
and
from
first
to
last
Told
him
our
pilgrimage
.
But
his
flawed
heart
(
Alack
,
too
weak
the
conflict
to
support
)
’Twixt
two
extremes
of
passion
,
joy
and
grief
,
Burst
smilingly
.
This
speech
of
yours
hath
moved
me
,
And
shall
perchance
do
good
.
But
speak
you
on
.
You
look
as
you
had
something
more
to
say
.
What means this bloody knife ?
Howl
,
howl
,
howl
!
O
,
you
are
men
of
stones
!
Had
I
your
tongues
and
eyes
,
I’d
use
them
so
That
heaven’s
vault
should
crack
.
She’s
gone
forever
.
I
know
when
one
is
dead
and
when
one
lives
.
She’s
dead
as
earth
.
—
Lend
me
a
looking
glass
.
If
that
her
breath
will
mist
or
stain
the
stone
,
Why
,
then
she
lives
.
And
my
poor
fool
is
hanged
.
No
,
no
,
no
life
?
Why
should
a
dog
,
a
horse
,
a
rat
have
life
,
And
thou
no
breath
at
all
?
Thou
’lt
come
no
more
,
Never
,
never
,
never
,
never
,
never
.
—
Pray
you
undo
this
button
.
Thank
you
,
sir
.
Do
you
see
this
?
Look
on
her
,
look
,
her
lips
,
Look
there
,
look
there
!
Look up , my lord .
Why
,
all
delights
are
vain
,
and
that
most
vain
Which
with
pain
purchased
doth
inherit
pain
:
As
painfully
to
pore
upon
a
book
To
seek
the
light
of
truth
,
while
truth
the
while
Doth
falsely
blind
the
eyesight
of
his
look
.
Light
seeking
light
doth
light
of
light
beguile
.
So
,
ere
you
find
where
light
in
darkness
lies
,
Your
light
grows
dark
by
losing
of
your
eyes
.
Study
me
how
to
please
the
eye
indeed
By
fixing
it
upon
a
fairer
eye
,
Who
dazzling
so
,
that
eye
shall
be
his
heed
And
give
him
light
that
it
was
blinded
by
.
Study
is
like
the
heaven’s
glorious
sun
,
That
will
not
be
deep-searched
with
saucy
looks
.
Small
have
continual
plodders
ever
won
,
Save
base
authority
from
others’
books
.
These
earthly
godfathers
of
heaven’s
lights
,
That
give
a
name
to
every
fixèd
star
,
Have
no
more
profit
of
their
shining
nights
Than
those
that
walk
and
wot
not
what
they
are
.
Too
much
to
know
is
to
know
naught
but
fame
,
And
every
godfather
can
give
a
name
.
I
myself
reprehend
his
own
person
,
for
I
am
his
Grace’s
farborough
.
But
I
would
see
his
own
person
in
flesh
and
blood
.
This
is
not
so
well
as
I
looked
for
,
but
the
best
that
ever
I
heard
.
A great sign , sir , that he will look sad .
I
do
say
thou
art
quick
in
answers
.
Thou
heat’st
my
blood
.
Let
me
not
be
pent
up
,
sir
.
I
will
fast
being
loose
.
No
,
sir
,
that
were
fast
and
loose
.
Thou
shalt
to
prison
.
Nay
,
nothing
,
Master
Mote
,
but
what
they
look
upon
.
It
is
not
for
prisoners
to
be
too
silent
in
their
words
,
and
therefore
I
will
say
nothing
.
I
thank
God
I
have
as
little
patience
as
another
man
,
and
therefore
I
can
be
quiet
.
Alack , let it blood .
Why
,
all
his
behaviors
did
make
their
retire
To
the
court
of
his
eye
,
peeping
thorough
desire
.
His
heart
like
an
agate
with
your
print
impressed
,
Proud
with
his
form
,
in
his
eye
pride
expressed
.
His
tongue
,
all
impatient
to
speak
and
not
see
,
Did
stumble
with
haste
in
his
eyesight
to
be
;
All
senses
to
that
sense
did
make
their
repair
,
To
feel
only
looking
on
fairest
of
fair
.
Methought
all
his
senses
were
locked
in
his
eye
,
As
jewels
in
crystal
for
some
prince
to
buy
,
Who
,
tend’ring
their
own
worth
from
where
they
were
glassed
,
Did
point
you
to
buy
them
along
as
you
passed
.
His
face’s
own
margent
did
quote
such
amazes
That
all
eyes
saw
his
eyes
enchanted
with
gazes
.
I’ll
give
you
Aquitaine
,
and
all
that
is
his
,
An
you
give
him
for
my
sake
but
one
loving
kiss
.
The
boy
hath
sold
him
a
bargain
—
a
goose
,
that’s
flat
.
—
Sir
,
your
pennyworth
is
good
,
an
your
goose
be
fat
.
To
sell
a
bargain
well
is
as
cunning
as
fast
and
loose
.
Let
me
see
:
a
fat
l’envoi
—
ay
,
that’s
a
fat
goose
.
True
,
true
;
and
now
you
will
be
my
purgation
,
and
let
me
loose
.
My
sweet
ounce
of
man’s
flesh
,
my
incony
Jew
!
Now
will
I
look
to
his
remuneration
.
Remuneration
!
O
,
that’s
the
Latin
word
for
three
farthings
.
Three
farthings
—
remuneration
.
What’s
the
price
of
this
inkle
?
One
penny
.
No
,
I’ll
give
you
a
remuneration
.
Why
,
it
carries
it
!
Remuneration
.
Why
,
it
is
a
fairer
name
than
French
crown
.
I
will
never
buy
and
sell
out
of
this
word
.
Gardon
.
O
sweet
gardon
!
Better
than
remuneration
,
a
’levenpence
farthing
better
!
Most
sweet
gardon
.
I
will
do
it
,
sir
,
in
print
.
Gardon
!
Remuneration
!
See
,
see
,
my
beauty
will
be
saved
by
merit
.
O
heresy
in
fair
,
fit
for
these
days
!
A
giving
hand
,
though
foul
,
shall
have
fair
praise
.
But
come
,
the
bow
.
Now
mercy
goes
to
kill
,
And
shooting
well
is
then
accounted
ill
.
Thus
will
I
save
my
credit
in
the
shoot
:
Not
wounding
,
pity
would
not
let
me
do
’t
;
If
wounding
,
then
it
was
to
show
my
skill
,
That
more
for
praise
than
purpose
meant
to
kill
.
And
out
of
question
so
it
is
sometimes
:
Glory
grows
guilty
of
detested
crimes
,
When
for
fame’s
sake
,
for
praise
,
an
outward
part
,
We
bend
to
that
the
working
of
the
heart
;
As
I
for
praise
alone
now
seek
to
spill
The
poor
deer’s
blood
,
that
my
heart
means
no
ill
.
The
deer
was
,
as
you
know
,
sanguis
,
in
blood
,
ripe
as
the
pomewater
,
who
now
hangeth
like
a
jewel
in
the
ear
of
caelo
,
the
sky
,
the
welkin
,
the
heaven
,
and
anon
falleth
like
a
crab
on
the
face
of
terra
,
the
soil
,
the
land
,
the
earth
.
Twice-sod
simplicity
,
bis
coctus
!
O
thou
monster
ignorance
,
how
deformed
dost
thou
look
!
If
a
talent
be
a
claw
,
look
how
he
claws
him
with
a
talent
.
Facile
precor
gelida
quando
peccas
omnia
sub
umbra
.
Ruminat
—
and
so
forth
.
Ah
,
good
old
Mantuan
!
I
may
speak
of
thee
as
the
traveler
doth
of
Venice
:
Venetia
,
Venetia
,
Chi
non
ti
vede
,
non
ti
pretia
.
Old
Mantuan
,
old
Mantuan
!
Who
understandeth
thee
not
,
loves
thee
not
.
Ut
,
re
,
sol
,
la
,
mi
,
fa
.
Under
pardon
,
sir
,
what
are
the
contents
?
Or
rather
,
as
Horace
says
in
his
—
What
,
my
soul
,
verses
?
I
will
overglance
the
superscript
:
To
the
snow-white
hand
of
the
most
beauteous
Lady
Rosaline
.
I
will
look
again
on
the
intellect
of
the
letter
for
the
nomination
of
the
party
writing
to
the
person
written
unto
:
Your
Ladyship’s
in
all
desired
employment
,
Berowne
.
Sir
Nathaniel
,
this
Berowne
is
one
of
the
votaries
with
the
King
,
and
here
he
hath
framed
a
letter
to
a
sequent
of
the
stranger
queen’s
:
which
accidentally
,
or
by
the
way
of
progression
,
hath
miscarried
.
Trip
and
go
,
my
sweet
.
Deliver
this
paper
into
the
royal
hand
of
the
King
.
It
may
concern
much
.
Stay
not
thy
compliment
.
I
forgive
thy
duty
.
Adieu
.
I
would
forget
her
,
but
a
fever
she
Reigns
in
my
blood
,
and
will
remembered
be
.
A
fever
in
your
blood
?
Why
,
then
incision
Would
let
her
out
in
saucers
!
Sweet
misprision
.
Dumaine
,
thy
love
is
far
from
charity
,
That
in
love’s
grief
desir’st
society
.
You
may
look
pale
,
but
I
should
blush
,
I
know
,
To
be
o’er-heard
and
taken
napping
so
.
Sweet
lords
,
sweet
lovers
,
O
,
let
us
embrace
.
As
true
we
are
as
flesh
and
blood
can
be
.
The
sea
will
ebb
and
flow
,
heaven
show
his
face
;
Young
blood
doth
not
obey
an
old
decree
.
We
cannot
cross
the
cause
why
we
were
born
;
Therefore
of
all
hands
must
we
be
forsworn
.
Did
they
,
quoth
you
?
Who
sees
the
heavenly
Rosaline
That
,
like
a
rude
and
savage
man
of
Ind
At
the
first
op’ning
of
the
gorgeous
East
,
Bows
not
his
vassal
head
and
,
strucken
blind
,
Kisses
the
base
ground
with
obedient
breast
?
What
peremptory
eagle-sighted
eye
Dares
look
upon
the
heaven
of
her
brow
That
is
not
blinded
by
her
majesty
?
My
eyes
are
then
no
eyes
,
nor
I
Berowne
.
O
,
but
for
my
love
,
day
would
turn
to
night
!
Of
all
complexions
the
culled
sovereignty
Do
meet
as
at
a
fair
in
her
fair
cheek
.
Where
several
worthies
make
one
dignity
,
Where
nothing
wants
that
want
itself
doth
seek
.
Lend
me
the
flourish
of
all
gentle
tongues
—
Fie
,
painted
rhetoric
!
O
,
she
needs
it
not
!
To
things
of
sale
a
seller’s
praise
belongs
.
She
passes
praise
.
Then
praise
too
short
doth
blot
.
A
withered
hermit
,
fivescore
winters
worn
,
Might
shake
off
fifty
,
looking
in
her
eye
.
Beauty
doth
varnish
age
,
as
if
newborn
,
And
gives
the
crutch
the
cradle’s
infancy
.
O
,
’tis
the
sun
that
maketh
all
things
shine
!
Is
ebony
like
her
?
O
word
divine
!
A
wife
of
such
wood
were
felicity
.
O
,
who
can
give
an
oath
?
Where
is
a
book
,
That
I
may
swear
beauty
doth
beauty
lack
If
that
she
learn
not
of
her
eye
to
look
?
No
face
is
fair
that
is
not
full
so
black
.
Devils
soonest
tempt
,
resembling
spirits
of
light
.
O
,
if
in
black
my
lady’s
brows
be
decked
,
It
mourns
that
painting
and
usurping
hair
Should
ravish
doters
with
a
false
aspect
:
And
therefore
is
she
born
to
make
black
fair
.
Her
favor
turns
the
fashion
of
the
days
,
For
native
blood
is
counted
painting
now
.
And
therefore
red
,
that
would
avoid
dispraise
,
Paints
itself
black
to
imitate
her
brow
.
To
look
like
her
are
chimney-sweepers
black
.
Look
,
here’s
thy
love
;
my
foot
and
her
face
see
.
Sweethearts
,
we
shall
be
rich
ere
we
depart
,
If
fairings
come
thus
plentifully
in
.
A
lady
walled
about
with
diamonds
!
Look
you
what
I
have
from
the
loving
king
.
Look
what
you
do
,
you
do
it
still
i’
th’
dark
.
The
blood
of
youth
burns
not
with
such
excess
As
gravity’s
revolt
to
wantonness
.
Look
how
you
butt
yourself
in
these
sharp
mocks
.
Will
you
give
horns
,
chaste
lady
?
Do
not
so
.
Amazed
,
my
lord
?
Why
looks
your
Highness
sad
?
Help
,
hold
his
brows
!
He’ll
swoon
!
—
Why
look
you
pale
?
Seasick
,
I
think
,
coming
from
Muscovy
.
O
sir
,
you
have
overthrown
Alisander
the
Conqueror
.
You
will
be
scraped
out
of
the
painted
cloth
for
this
.
Your
lion
,
that
holds
his
polax
sitting
on
a
close-stool
,
will
be
given
to
Ajax
.
He
will
be
the
ninth
Worthy
.
A
conqueror
,
and
afeard
to
speak
?
Run
away
for
shame
,
Alisander
.
There
,
an
’t
shall
please
you
,
a
foolish
mild
man
,
an
honest
man
,
look
you
,
and
soon
dashed
.
He
is
a
marvelous
good
neighbor
,
faith
,
and
a
very
good
bowler
.
But
,
for
Alisander
—
alas
,
you
see
how
’tis
—
a
little
o’erparted
.
But
there
are
Worthies
a-coming
will
speak
their
mind
in
some
other
sort
.
Ay
,
if
he
have
no
more
man’s
blood
in
his
belly
than
will
sup
a
flea
.
Sweet bloods , I both may and will .
The
extreme
parts
of
time
extremely
forms
All
causes
to
the
purpose
of
his
speed
,
And
often
at
his
very
loose
decides
That
which
long
process
could
not
arbitrate
.
And
though
the
mourning
brow
of
progeny
Forbid
the
smiling
courtesy
of
love
The
holy
suit
which
fain
it
would
convince
,
Yet
since
love’s
argument
was
first
on
foot
,
Let
not
the
cloud
of
sorrow
jostle
it
From
what
it
purposed
,
since
to
wail
friends
lost
Is
not
by
much
so
wholesome-profitable
As
to
rejoice
at
friends
but
newly
found
.
Honest
plain
words
best
pierce
the
ear
of
grief
,
And
by
these
badges
understand
the
King
:
For
your
fair
sakes
have
we
neglected
time
,
Played
foul
play
with
our
oaths
.
Your
beauty
,
ladies
,
Hath
much
deformed
us
,
fashioning
our
humors
Even
to
the
opposèd
end
of
our
intents
.
And
what
in
us
hath
seemed
ridiculous
—
As
love
is
full
of
unbefitting
strains
,
All
wanton
as
a
child
,
skipping
and
vain
,
Formed
by
the
eye
and
therefore
,
like
the
eye
,
Full
of
strange
shapes
,
of
habits
,
and
of
forms
,
Varying
in
subjects
as
the
eye
doth
roll
To
every
varied
object
in
his
glance
;
Which
parti-coated
presence
of
loose
love
Put
on
by
us
,
if
,
in
your
heavenly
eyes
,
Have
misbecomed
our
oaths
and
gravities
,
Those
heavenly
eyes
,
that
look
into
these
faults
,
Suggested
us
to
make
.
Therefore
,
ladies
,
Our
love
being
yours
,
the
error
that
love
makes
Is
likewise
yours
.
We
to
ourselves
prove
false
By
being
once
false
forever
to
be
true
To
those
that
make
us
both
—
fair
ladies
,
you
.
And
even
that
falsehood
,
in
itself
a
sin
,
Thus
purifies
itself
and
turns
to
grace
.
So
did
our
looks
.
A
time
,
methinks
,
too
short
To
make
a
world-without-end
bargain
in
.
No
,
no
,
my
lord
,
your
Grace
is
perjured
much
,
Full
of
dear
guiltiness
,
and
therefore
this
:
If
for
my
love
—
as
there
is
no
such
cause
—
You
will
do
aught
,
this
shall
you
do
for
me
:
Your
oath
I
will
not
trust
,
but
go
with
speed
To
some
forlorn
and
naked
hermitage
,
Remote
from
all
the
pleasures
of
the
world
.
There
stay
until
the
twelve
celestial
signs
Have
brought
about
the
annual
reckoning
.
If
this
austere
insociable
life
Change
not
your
offer
made
in
heat
of
blood
;
If
frosts
and
fasts
,
hard
lodging
,
and
thin
weeds
Nip
not
the
gaudy
blossoms
of
your
love
,
But
that
it
bear
this
trial
,
and
last
love
;
Then
,
at
the
expiration
of
the
year
,
Come
challenge
me
,
challenge
me
by
these
deserts
,
And
by
this
virgin
palm
now
kissing
thine
,
I
will
be
thine
.
And
till
that
instant
shut
My
woeful
self
up
in
a
mourning
house
,
Raining
the
tears
of
lamentation
For
the
remembrance
of
my
father’s
death
.
If
this
thou
do
deny
,
let
our
hands
part
,
Neither
entitled
in
the
other’s
heart
.
Studies
my
lady
?
Mistress
,
look
on
me
.
Behold
the
window
of
my
heart
,
mine
eye
,
What
humble
suit
attends
thy
answer
there
.
Impose
some
service
on
me
for
thy
love
.
Why
,
that’s
the
way
to
choke
a
gibing
spirit
,
Whose
influence
is
begot
of
that
loose
grace
Which
shallow
laughing
hearers
give
to
fools
.
A
jest’s
prosperity
lies
in
the
ear
Of
him
that
hears
it
,
never
in
the
tongue
Of
him
that
makes
it
.
Then
if
sickly
ears
,
Deafed
with
the
clamors
of
their
own
dear
groans
Will
hear
your
idle
scorns
,
continue
then
,
And
I
will
have
you
and
that
fault
withal
.
But
if
they
will
not
,
throw
away
that
spirit
,
And
I
shall
find
you
empty
of
that
fault
,
Right
joyful
of
your
reformation
.
When
icicles
hang
by
the
wall
,
And
Dick
the
shepherd
blows
his
nail
,
And
Tom
bears
logs
into
the
hall
,
And
milk
comes
frozen
home
in
pail
;
When
blood
is
nipped
,
and
ways
be
foul
,
Then
nightly
sings
the
staring
owl
Tu-whit
to-who
.
A
merry
note
,
While
greasy
Joan
doth
keel
the
pot
.
When
all
aloud
the
wind
doth
blow
,
And
coughing
drowns
the
parson’s
saw
,
And
birds
sit
brooding
in
the
snow
,
And
Marian’s
nose
looks
red
and
raw
;
When
roasted
crabs
hiss
in
the
bowl
,
Then
nightly
sings
the
staring
owl
Tu-whit
to-who
.
A
merry
note
,
While
greasy
Joan
doth
keel
the
pot
.
What
bloody
man
is
that
?
He
can
report
,
As
seemeth
by
his
plight
,
of
the
revolt
The
newest
state
.
Doubtful
it
stood
,
As
two
spent
swimmers
that
do
cling
together
And
choke
their
art
.
The
merciless
Macdonwald
(
Worthy
to
be
a
rebel
,
for
to
that
The
multiplying
villainies
of
nature
Do
swarm
upon
him
)
from
the
Western
Isles
Of
kerns
and
gallowglasses
is
supplied
;
And
Fortune
,
on
his
damnèd
quarrel
smiling
,
Showed
like
a
rebel’s
whore
.
But
all’s
too
weak
;
For
brave
Macbeth
(
well
he
deserves
that
name
)
,
Disdaining
Fortune
,
with
his
brandished
steel
,
Which
smoked
with
bloody
execution
,
Like
Valor’s
valor’s
minion
,
carved
out
his
passage
Till
he
faced
the
slave
;
Which
ne’er
shook
hands
,
nor
bade
farewell
to
him
,
Till
he
unseamed
him
from
the
nave
to
th’
chops
,
And
fixed
his
head
upon
our
battlements
.
What
a
haste
looks
through
his
eyes
!
So
should
he
look
that
seems
to
speak
things
strange
.
I
myself
have
all
the
other
,
And
the
very
ports
they
blow
;
,
All
the
quarters
that
they
know
I’
th’
shipman’s
card
.
I’ll
drain
him
dry
as
hay
.
Sleep
shall
neither
night
nor
day
Hang
upon
his
penthouse
lid
.
He
shall
live
a
man
forbid
.
Weary
sev’nnights
,
nine
times
nine
,
Shall
he
dwindle
,
peak
,
and
pine
.
Though
his
bark
cannot
be
lost
,
Yet
it
shall
be
tempest-tossed
.
Look
what
I
have
.
How
far
is
’t
called
to
Forres
?
—
What
are
these
,
So
withered
,
and
so
wild
in
their
attire
,
That
look
not
like
th’
inhabitants
o’
th’
Earth
earth
And
yet
are
on
’t
?
—
Live
you
?
Or
are
you
aught
That
man
may
question
?
You
seem
to
understand
me
By
each
at
once
her
choppy
finger
laying
Upon
her
skinny
lips
.
You
should
be
women
,
And
yet
your
beards
forbid
me
to
interpret
That
you
are
so
.
Good
sir
,
why
do
you
start
and
seem
to
fear
Things
that
do
sound
so
fair
?
—
I’
th’
name
of
truth
,
Are
you
fantastical
,
or
that
indeed
Which
outwardly
you
show
?
My
noble
partner
You
greet
with
present
grace
and
great
prediction
Of
noble
having
and
of
royal
hope
,
That
he
seems
rapt
withal
.
To
me
you
speak
not
.
If
you
can
look
into
the
seeds
of
time
And
say
which
grain
will
grow
and
which
will
not
,
Speak
,
then
,
to
me
,
who
neither
beg
nor
fear
Your
favors
nor
your
hate
.
Look how our partner’s rapt .
Give
him
tending
.
He
brings
great
news
.
The
raven
himself
is
hoarse
That
croaks
the
fatal
entrance
of
Duncan
Under
my
battlements
.
Come
,
you
spirits
That
tend
on
mortal
thoughts
,
unsex
me
here
,
And
fill
me
from
the
crown
to
the
toe
top-full
Of
direst
cruelty
.
Make
thick
my
blood
.
Stop
up
th’
access
and
passage
to
remorse
,
That
no
compunctious
visitings
of
nature
Shake
my
fell
purpose
,
nor
keep
peace
between
Th’
effect
and
it
.
Come
to
my
woman’s
breasts
And
take
my
milk
for
gall
,
you
murd’ring
ministers
,
Wherever
in
your
sightless
substances
You
wait
on
nature’s
mischief
.
Come
,
thick
night
,
And
pall
thee
in
the
dunnest
smoke
of
hell
,
That
my
keen
knife
see
not
the
wound
it
makes
,
Nor
heaven
peep
through
the
blanket
of
the
dark
To
cry
Hold
,
hold
!
Great
Glamis
,
worthy
Cawdor
,
Greater
than
both
by
the
all-hail
hereafter
!
Thy
letters
have
transported
me
beyond
This
ignorant
present
,
and
I
feel
now
The
future
in
the
instant
.
O
,
never
Shall
sun
that
morrow
see
!
Your
face
,
my
thane
,
is
as
a
book
where
men
May
read
strange
matters
.
To
beguile
the
time
,
Look
like
the
time
.
Bear
welcome
in
your
eye
,
Your
hand
,
your
tongue
.
Look
like
th’
innocent
flower
,
But
be
the
serpent
under
’t
.
He
that’s
coming
Must
be
provided
for
;
and
you
shall
put
This
night’s
great
business
into
my
dispatch
,
Which
shall
to
all
our
nights
and
days
to
come
Give
solely
sovereign
sway
and
masterdom
.
Only
look
up
clear
.
To
alter
favor
ever
is
to
fear
.
Leave
all
the
rest
to
me
.
If
it
were
done
when
’tis
done
,
then
’twere
well
It
were
done
quickly
.
If
th’
assassination
Could
trammel
up
the
consequence
and
catch
With
his
surcease
success
,
that
but
this
blow
Might
be
the
be-all
and
the
end-all
here
,
But
here
,
upon
this
bank
and
shoal
of
time
,
We’d
jump
the
life
to
come
.
But
in
these
cases
We
still
have
judgment
here
,
that
we
but
teach
Bloody
instructions
,
which
,
being
taught
,
return
To
plague
th’
inventor
.
This
even-handed
justice
Commends
th’
ingredience
of
our
poisoned
chalice
To
our
own
lips
.
He’s
here
in
double
trust
:
First
,
as
I
am
his
kinsman
and
his
subject
,
Strong
both
against
the
deed
;
then
,
as
his
host
,
Who
should
against
his
murderer
shut
the
door
,
Not
bear
the
knife
myself
.
Besides
,
this
Duncan
Hath
borne
his
faculties
so
meek
,
hath
been
So
clear
in
his
great
office
,
that
his
virtues
Will
plead
like
angels
,
trumpet-tongued
,
against
The
deep
damnation
of
his
taking-off
;
And
pity
,
like
a
naked
newborn
babe
Striding
the
blast
,
or
heaven’s
cherubin
horsed
Upon
the
sightless
couriers
of
the
air
,
Shall
blow
the
horrid
deed
in
every
eye
,
That
tears
shall
drown
the
wind
.
I
have
no
spur
To
prick
the
sides
of
my
intent
,
but
only
Vaulting
ambition
,
which
o’erleaps
itself
And
falls
on
th’
other
—
How
now
,
what
news
?
Was
the
hope
drunk
Wherein
you
dressed
yourself
?
Hath
it
slept
since
?
And
wakes
it
now
,
to
look
so
green
and
pale
At
what
it
did
so
freely
?
From
this
time
Such
I
account
thy
love
.
Art
thou
afeard
To
be
the
same
in
thine
own
act
and
valor
As
thou
art
in
desire
?
Wouldst
thou
have
that
Which
thou
esteem’st
the
ornament
of
life
And
live
a
coward
in
thine
own
esteem
,
Letting
I
dare
not
wait
upon
I
would
,
Like
the
poor
cat
i’
th’
adage
?
Bring
forth
men-children
only
,
For
thy
undaunted
mettle
should
compose
Nothing
but
males
.
Will
it
not
be
received
,
When
we
have
marked
with
blood
those
sleepy
two
Of
his
own
chamber
and
used
their
very
daggers
,
That
they
have
done
’t
?
Go
bid
thy
mistress
,
when
my
drink
is
ready
,
She
strike
upon
the
bell
.
Get
thee
to
bed
.
Is
this
a
dagger
which
I
see
before
me
,
The
handle
toward
my
hand
?
Come
,
let
me
clutch
thee
.
I
have
thee
not
,
and
yet
I
see
thee
still
.
Art
thou
not
,
fatal
vision
,
sensible
To
feeling
as
to
sight
?
Or
art
thou
but
A
dagger
of
the
mind
,
a
false
creation
Proceeding
from
the
heat-oppressèd
brain
?
I
see
thee
yet
,
in
form
as
palpable
As
this
which
now
I
draw
.
Thou
marshal’st
me
the
way
that
I
was
going
,
And
such
an
instrument
I
was
to
use
.
Mine
eyes
are
made
the
fools
o’
th’
other
senses
Or
else
worth
all
the
rest
.
I
see
thee
still
,
And
,
on
thy
blade
and
dudgeon
,
gouts
of
blood
,
Which
was
not
so
before
.
There’s
no
such
thing
.
It
is
the
bloody
business
which
informs
Thus
to
mine
eyes
.
Now
o’er
the
one-half
world
Nature
seems
dead
,
and
wicked
dreams
abuse
The
curtained
sleep
.
Witchcraft
celebrates
Pale
Hecate’s
off’rings
,
and
withered
murder
,
Alarumed
by
his
sentinel
,
the
wolf
,
Whose
howl’s
his
watch
,
thus
with
his
stealthy
pace
,
With
Tarquin’s
ravishing
strides
,
towards
his
design
Moves
like
a
ghost
.
Thou
sure
and
firm-set
earth
,
Hear
not
my
steps
,
which
way
they
walk
,
for
fear
Thy
very
stones
prate
of
my
whereabouts
And
take
the
present
horror
from
the
time
,
Which
now
suits
with
it
.
Whiles
I
threat
,
he
lives
.
Words
to
the
heat
of
deeds
too
cold
breath
gives
.
I
go
,
and
it
is
done
.
The
bell
invites
me
.
Hear
it
not
,
Duncan
,
for
it
is
a
knell
That
summons
thee
to
heaven
or
to
hell
.
Alack
,
I
am
afraid
they
have
awaked
,
And
’tis
not
done
.
Th’
attempt
and
not
the
deed
Confounds
us
.
Hark
!
—
I
laid
their
daggers
ready
;
He
could
not
miss
’em
.
Had
he
not
resembled
My
father
as
he
slept
,
I
had
done
’t
.
My
husband
?
Who
was
it
that
thus
cried
?
Why
,
worthy
thane
,
You
do
unbend
your
noble
strength
to
think
So
brainsickly
of
things
.
Go
get
some
water
And
wash
this
filthy
witness
from
your
hand
.
—
Why
did
you
bring
these
daggers
from
the
place
?
They
must
lie
there
.
Go
,
carry
them
and
smear
The
sleepy
grooms
with
blood
.
I’ll
go
no
more
.
I
am
afraid
to
think
what
I
have
done
.
Look
on
’t
again
I
dare
not
.
Whence
is
that
knocking
?
How
is
’t
with
me
when
every
noise
appalls
me
?
What
hands
are
here
!
Ha
,
they
pluck
out
mine
eyes
.
Will
all
great
Neptune’s
ocean
wash
this
blood
Clean
from
my
hand
?
No
,
this
my
hand
will
rather
The
multitudinous
seas
incarnadine
,
Making
the
green
one
red
.
Approach
the
chamber
and
destroy
your
sight
With
a
new
Gorgon
.
Do
not
bid
me
speak
.
See
and
then
speak
yourselves
.
Awake
,
awake
!
Ring
the
alarum
bell
.
—
Murder
and
treason
!
Banquo
and
Donalbain
,
Malcolm
,
awake
!
Shake
off
this
downy
sleep
,
death’s
counterfeit
,
And
look
on
death
itself
.
Up
,
up
,
and
see
The
great
doom’s
image
.
Malcolm
,
Banquo
,
As
from
your
graves
rise
up
and
walk
like
sprites
To
countenance
this
horror
.
—
Ring
the
bell
.
You
are
,
and
do
not
know
’t
.
The
spring
,
the
head
,
the
fountain
of
your
blood
Is
stopped
;
the
very
source
of
it
is
stopped
.
Those
of
his
chamber
,
as
it
seemed
,
had
done
’t
.
Their
hands
and
faces
were
all
badged
with
blood
.
So
were
their
daggers
,
which
unwiped
we
found
Upon
their
pillows
.
They
stared
and
were
distracted
.
No
man’s
life
was
to
be
trusted
with
them
.
Who
can
be
wise
,
amazed
,
temp’rate
,
and
furious
,
Loyal
,
and
neutral
,
in
a
moment
?
No
man
.
Th’
expedition
of
my
violent
love
Outrun
the
pauser
,
reason
.
Here
lay
Duncan
,
His
silver
skin
laced
with
his
golden
blood
,
And
his
gashed
stabs
looked
like
a
breach
in
nature
For
ruin’s
wasteful
entrance
;
there
the
murderers
,
Steeped
in
the
colors
of
their
trade
,
their
daggers
Unmannerly
breeched
with
gore
.
Who
could
refrain
That
had
a
heart
to
love
,
and
in
that
heart
Courage
to
make
’s
love
known
?
Look
to
the
lady
.
Look
to
the
lady
.
And
when
we
have
our
naked
frailties
hid
,
That
suffer
in
exposure
,
let
us
meet
And
question
this
most
bloody
piece
of
work
To
know
it
further
.
Fears
and
scruples
shake
us
.
In
the
great
hand
of
God
I
stand
,
and
thence
Against
the
undivulged
pretense
I
fight
Of
treasonous
malice
.
To
Ireland
I
.
Our
separated
fortune
Shall
keep
us
both
the
safer
.
Where
we
are
,
There’s
daggers
in
men’s
smiles
.
The
near
in
blood
,
The
nearer
bloody
.
Ha
,
good
father
,
Thou
seest
the
heavens
,
as
troubled
with
man’s
act
,
Threatens
his
bloody
stage
.
By
th’
clock
’tis
day
,
And
yet
dark
night
strangles
the
traveling
lamp
.
Is
’t
night’s
predominance
or
the
day’s
shame
That
darkness
does
the
face
of
earth
entomb
When
living
light
should
kiss
it
?
They
did
so
,
to
th’
amazement
of
mine
eyes
That
looked
upon
’t
.
Here
comes
the
good
Macduff
.
—
How
goes
the
world
,
sir
,
now
?
Is
’t
known
who
did
this
more
than
bloody
deed
?
We
hear
our
bloody
cousins
are
bestowed
In
England
and
in
Ireland
,
not
confessing
Their
cruel
parricide
,
filling
their
hearers
With
strange
invention
.
But
of
that
tomorrow
,
When
therewithal
we
shall
have
cause
of
state
Craving
us
jointly
.
Hie
you
to
horse
.
Adieu
,
Till
you
return
at
night
.
Goes
Fleance
with
you
?
So
is
he
mine
,
and
in
such
bloody
distance
That
every
minute
of
his
being
thrusts
Against
my
near’st
of
life
.
And
though
I
could
With
barefaced
power
sweep
him
from
my
sight
And
bid
my
will
avouch
it
,
yet
I
must
not
,
For
certain
friends
that
are
both
his
and
mine
,
Whose
loves
I
may
not
drop
,
but
wail
his
fall
Who
I
myself
struck
down
.
And
thence
it
is
That
I
to
your
assistance
do
make
love
,
Masking
the
business
from
the
common
eye
For
sundry
weighty
reasons
.
Come
on
,
gentle
my
lord
,
Sleek
o’er
your
rugged
looks
.
Be
bright
and
jovial
Among
your
guests
tonight
.
Be
innocent
of
the
knowledge
,
dearest
chuck
,
Till
thou
applaud
the
deed
.
—
Come
,
seeling
night
,
Scarf
up
the
tender
eye
of
pitiful
day
And
with
thy
bloody
and
invisible
hand
Cancel
and
tear
to
pieces
that
great
bond
Which
keeps
me
pale
.
Light
thickens
,
and
the
crow
Makes
wing
to
th’
rooky
wood
.
Good
things
of
day
begin
to
droop
and
drowse
,
Whiles
night’s
black
agents
to
their
preys
do
rouse
.
—
Thou
marvel’st
at
my
words
,
but
hold
thee
still
.
Things
bad
begun
make
strong
themselves
by
ill
.
So
prithee
go
with
me
.
See
,
they
encounter
thee
with
their
hearts’
thanks
.
Both
sides
are
even
.
Here
I’ll
sit
i’
th’
midst
.
Be
large
in
mirth
.
Anon
we’ll
drink
a
measure
The
table
round
.
There’s
blood
upon
thy
face
.
Ay
,
and
a
bold
one
,
that
dare
look
on
that
Which
might
appall
the
devil
.
O
,
proper
stuff
!
This
is
the
very
painting
of
your
fear
.
This
is
the
air-drawn
dagger
which
you
said
Led
you
to
Duncan
.
O
,
these
flaws
and
starts
,
Impostors
to
true
fear
,
would
well
become
A
woman’s
story
at
a
winter’s
fire
,
Authorized
by
her
grandam
.
Shame
itself
!
Why
do
you
make
such
faces
?
When
all’s
done
,
You
look
but
on
a
stool
.
Prithee
,
see
there
.
Behold
,
look
!
Lo
,
how
say
you
?
Why
,
what
care
I
?
If
thou
canst
nod
,
speak
too
.
—
If
charnel
houses
and
our
graves
must
send
Those
that
we
bury
back
,
our
monuments
Shall
be
the
maws
of
kites
.
Blood
hath
been
shed
ere
now
,
i’
th’
olden
time
,
Ere
humane
statute
purged
the
gentle
weal
;
Ay
,
and
since
too
,
murders
have
been
performed
Too
terrible
for
the
ear
.
The
time
has
been
That
,
when
the
brains
were
out
,
the
man
would
die
,
And
there
an
end
.
But
now
they
rise
again
With
twenty
mortal
murders
on
their
crowns
And
push
us
from
our
stools
.
This
is
more
strange
Than
such
a
murder
is
.
Avaunt
,
and
quit
my
sight
!
Let
the
earth
hide
thee
.
Thy
bones
are
marrowless
;
thy
blood
is
cold
;
Thou
hast
no
speculation
in
those
eyes
Which
thou
dost
glare
with
.
It
will
have
blood
,
they
say
;
blood
will
have
blood
.
Stones
have
been
known
to
move
,
and
trees
to
speak
.
;
Augurs
and
understood
relations
have
By
maggot
pies
and
choughs
and
rooks
brought
forth
The
secret’st
man
of
blood
.
—
What
is
the
night
?
I
hear
it
by
the
way
;
but
I
will
send
.
There’s
not
a
one
of
them
but
in
his
house
I
keep
a
servant
fee’d
.
I
will
tomorrow
(
And
betimes
I
will
)
to
the
Weïrd
Sisters
.
More
shall
they
speak
,
for
now
I
am
bent
to
know
By
the
worst
means
the
worst
.
For
mine
own
good
,
All
causes
shall
give
way
.
I
am
in
blood
Stepped
in
so
far
that
,
should
I
wade
no
more
,
Returning
were
as
tedious
as
go
o’er
.
Strange
things
I
have
in
head
,
that
will
to
hand
,
Which
must
be
acted
ere
they
may
be
scanned
.
Why
,
how
now
,
Hecate
?
You
look
angerly
.
The
son
of
Duncan
(
From
whom
this
tyrant
holds
the
due
of
birth
)
Lives
in
the
English
court
and
is
received
Of
the
most
pious
Edward
with
such
grace
That
the
malevolence
of
fortune
nothing
Takes
from
his
high
respect
.
Thither
Macduff
Is
gone
to
pray
the
holy
king
upon
his
aid
To
wake
Northumberland
and
warlike
Siward
That
,
by
the
help
of
these
(
with
Him
above
To
ratify
the
work
)
,
we
may
again
Give
to
our
tables
meat
,
sleep
to
our
nights
,
Free
from
our
feasts
and
banquets
bloody
knives
,
Do
faithful
homage
,
and
receive
free
honors
,
All
which
we
pine
for
now
.
And
this
report
Hath
so
exasperate
the
King
that
he
Prepares
for
some
attempt
of
war
.
Cool
it
with
a
baboon’s
blood
.
Then
the
charm
is
firm
and
good
.
Pour
in
sow’s
blood
that
hath
eaten
Her
nine
farrow
;
grease
that’s
sweaten
From
the
murderers’
gibbet
throw
Into
the
flame
.
Be
bloody
,
bold
,
and
resolute
.
Laugh
to
scorn
The
power
of
man
,
for
none
of
woman
born
Shall
harm
Macbeth
.
Thou
art
too
like
the
spirit
of
Banquo
.
Down
!
Thy
crown
does
sear
mine
eyeballs
.
And
thy
hair
,
Thou
other
gold-bound
brow
,
is
like
the
first
.
A
third
is
like
the
former
.
—
Filthy
hags
,
Why
do
you
show
me
this
?
—
A
fourth
?
Start
,
eyes
!
What
,
will
the
line
stretch
out
to
th’
crack
of
doom
?
Another
yet
?
A
seventh
?
I’ll
see
no
more
.
And
yet
the
eighth
appears
who
bears
a
glass
Which
shows
me
many
more
,
and
some
I
see
That
twofold
balls
and
treble
scepters
carry
.
Horrible
sight
!
Now
I
see
’tis
true
,
For
the
blood-boltered
Banquo
smiles
upon
me
And
points
at
them
for
his
.
What
,
is
this
so
?
But
Macbeth
is
.
A
good
and
virtuous
nature
may
recoil
In
an
imperial
charge
.
But
I
shall
crave
your
pardon
.
That
which
you
are
,
my
thoughts
cannot
transpose
.
Angels
are
bright
still
,
though
the
brightest
fell
.
Though
all
things
foul
would
wear
the
brows
of
grace
,
Yet
grace
must
still
look
so
.
I
grant
him
bloody
,
Luxurious
,
avaricious
,
false
,
deceitful
,
Sudden
,
malicious
,
smacking
of
every
sin
That
has
a
name
.
But
there’s
no
bottom
,
none
,
In
my
voluptuousness
.
Your
wives
,
your
daughters
,
Your
matrons
,
and
your
maids
could
not
fill
up
The
cistern
of
my
lust
,
and
my
desire
All
continent
impediments
would
o’erbear
That
did
oppose
my
will
.
Better
Macbeth
Than
such
an
one
to
reign
.
Fit
to
govern
?
No
,
not
to
live
.
—
O
nation
miserable
,
With
an
untitled
tyrant
bloody-sceptered
,
When
shalt
thou
see
thy
wholesome
days
again
,
Since
that
the
truest
issue
of
thy
throne
By
his
own
interdiction
stands
accursed
And
does
blaspheme
his
breed
?
—
Thy
royal
father
Was
a
most
sainted
king
.
The
queen
that
bore
thee
,
Oft’ner
upon
her
knees
than
on
her
feet
,
Died
every
day
she
lived
.
Fare
thee
well
.
These
evils
thou
repeat’st
upon
thyself
Hath
banished
me
from
Scotland
.
—
O
my
breast
,
Thy
hope
ends
here
!
I
shall
do
so
,
But
I
must
also
feel
it
as
a
man
.
I
cannot
but
remember
such
things
were
That
were
most
precious
to
me
.
Did
heaven
look
on
And
would
not
take
their
part
?
Sinful
Macduff
,
They
were
all
struck
for
thee
!
Naught
that
I
am
,
Not
for
their
own
demerits
,
but
for
mine
,
Fell
slaughter
on
their
souls
.
Heaven
rest
them
now
.
What
is
it
she
does
now
?
Look
how
she
rubs
her
hands
.
Out
,
damned
spot
,
out
,
I
say
!
One
.
Two
.
Why
then
,
’tis
time
to
do
’t
.
Hell
is
murky
.
Fie
,
my
lord
,
fie
,
a
soldier
and
afeard
?
What
need
we
fear
who
knows
it
,
when
none
can
call
our
power
to
account
?
Yet
who
would
have
thought
the
old
man
to
have
had
so
much
blood
in
him
?
Here’s
the
smell
of
the
blood
still
.
All
the
perfumes
of
Arabia
will
not
sweeten
this
little
hand
.
O
,
O
,
O
!
Wash
your
hands
.
Put
on
your
nightgown
.
Look
not
so
pale
.
I
tell
you
yet
again
,
Banquo’s
buried
;
he
cannot
come
out
on
’s
grave
.
Foul
whisp’rings
are
abroad
.
Unnatural
deeds
Do
breed
unnatural
troubles
.
Infected
minds
To
their
deaf
pillows
will
discharge
their
secrets
.
More
needs
she
the
divine
than
the
physician
.
God
,
God
forgive
us
all
.
Look
after
her
.
Remove
from
her
the
means
of
all
annoyance
And
still
keep
eyes
upon
her
.
So
,
good
night
.
My
mind
she
has
mated
,
and
amazed
my
sight
.
I
think
but
dare
not
speak
.
Now
does
he
feel
His
secret
murders
sticking
on
his
hands
.
Now
minutely
revolts
upbraid
his
faith-breach
.
Those
he
commands
move
only
in
command
,
Nothing
in
love
.
Now
does
he
feel
his
title
Hang
loose
about
him
,
like
a
giant’s
robe
Upon
a
dwarfish
thief
.
Bring
me
no
more
reports
.
Let
them
fly
all
.
Till
Birnam
Wood
remove
to
Dunsinane
I
cannot
taint
with
fear
.
What’s
the
boy
Malcolm
?
Was
he
not
born
of
woman
?
The
spirits
that
know
All
mortal
consequences
have
pronounced
me
thus
:
Fear
not
,
Macbeth
.
No
man
that’s
born
of
woman
Shall
e’er
have
power
upon
thee
.
Then
fly
,
false
thanes
,
And
mingle
with
the
English
epicures
.
The
mind
I
sway
by
and
the
heart
I
bear
Shall
never
sag
with
doubt
nor
shake
with
fear
.
The
devil
damn
thee
black
,
thou
cream-faced
loon
!
Where
got’st
thou
that
goose-look
?
Take
thy
face
hence
.
Seyton
!
—
I
am
sick
at
heart
When
I
behold
—
Seyton
,
I
say
!
—
This
push
Will
cheer
me
ever
or
disseat
me
now
.
I
have
lived
long
enough
.
My
way
of
life
Is
fall’n
into
the
sere
,
the
yellow
leaf
,
And
that
which
should
accompany
old
age
,
As
honor
,
love
,
obedience
,
troops
of
friends
,
I
must
not
look
to
have
,
but
in
their
stead
Curses
,
not
loud
but
deep
,
mouth-honor
,
breath
Which
the
poor
heart
would
fain
deny
and
dare
not
.
—
Seyton
!
As
I
did
stand
my
watch
upon
the
hill
,
I
looked
toward
Birnam
,
and
anon
methought
The
Wood
wood
began
to
move
.
Make
all
our
trumpets
speak
;
give
them
all
breath
,
Those
clamorous
harbingers
of
blood
and
death
.
Of
all
men
else
I
have
avoided
thee
.
But
get
thee
back
.
My
soul
is
too
much
charged
With
blood
of
thine
already
.
I
have
no
words
;
My
voice
is
in
my
sword
,
thou
bloodier
villain
Than
terms
can
give
thee
out
.
Look where he comes .
No
more
evasion
.
We
have
with
a
leavened
and
preparèd
choice
Proceeded
to
you
.
Therefore
,
take
your
honors
.
Our
haste
from
hence
is
of
so
quick
condition
That
it
prefers
itself
and
leaves
unquestioned
Matters
of
needful
value
.
We
shall
write
to
you
,
As
time
and
our
concernings
shall
importune
,
How
it
goes
with
us
,
and
do
look
to
know
What
doth
befall
you
here
.
So
fare
you
well
.
To
th’
hopeful
execution
do
I
leave
you
Of
your
commissions
.
I
shall
desire
you
,
sir
,
to
give
me
leave
To
have
free
speech
with
you
;
and
it
concerns
me
To
look
into
the
bottom
of
my
place
.
A
power
I
have
,
but
of
what
strength
and
nature
I
am
not
yet
instructed
.
A
hundred
,
if
they’ll
do
you
any
good
.
Is
lechery
so
looked
after
?
It
rested
in
your
Grace
To
unloose
this
tied-up
justice
when
you
pleased
,
And
it
in
you
more
dreadful
would
have
seemed
Than
in
Lord
Angelo
.
I
do
fear
,
too
dreadful
.
Sith
’twas
my
fault
to
give
the
people
scope
,
’Twould
be
my
tyranny
to
strike
and
gall
them
For
what
I
bid
them
do
;
for
we
bid
this
be
done
When
evil
deeds
have
their
permissive
pass
And
not
the
punishment
.
Therefore
,
indeed
,
my
father
,
I
have
on
Angelo
imposed
the
office
,
Who
may
in
th’
ambush
of
my
name
strike
home
,
And
yet
my
nature
never
in
the
fight
To
do
in
slander
.
And
to
behold
his
sway
I
will
,
as
’twere
a
brother
of
your
order
,
Visit
both
prince
and
people
.
Therefore
I
prithee
Supply
me
with
the
habit
,
and
instruct
me
How
I
may
formally
in
person
bear
Like
a
true
friar
.
More
reasons
for
this
action
At
our
more
leisure
shall
I
render
you
.
Only
this
one
:
Lord
Angelo
is
precise
,
Stands
at
a
guard
with
envy
,
scarce
confesses
That
his
blood
flows
or
that
his
appetite
Is
more
to
bread
than
stone
.
Hence
shall
we
see
,
If
power
change
purpose
,
what
our
seemers
be
.
This
is
the
point
.
The
Duke
is
very
strangely
gone
from
hence
;
Bore
many
gentlemen
,
myself
being
one
,
In
hand
,
and
hope
of
action
;
but
we
do
learn
,
By
those
that
know
the
very
nerves
of
state
,
His
givings-out
were
of
an
infinite
distance
From
his
true-meant
design
.
Upon
his
place
,
And
with
full
line
of
his
authority
,
Governs
Lord
Angelo
,
a
man
whose
blood
Is
very
snow-broth
;
one
who
never
feels
The
wanton
stings
and
motions
of
the
sense
,
But
doth
rebate
and
blunt
his
natural
edge
With
profits
of
the
mind
:
study
and
fast
.
He
—
to
give
fear
to
use
and
liberty
,
Which
have
for
long
run
by
the
hideous
law
As
mice
by
lions
—
hath
picked
out
an
act
Under
whose
heavy
sense
your
brother’s
life
Falls
into
forfeit
.
He
arrests
him
on
it
,
And
follows
close
the
rigor
of
the
statute
To
make
him
an
example
.
All
hope
is
gone
Unless
you
have
the
grace
by
your
fair
prayer
To
soften
Angelo
.
And
that’s
my
pith
of
business
’Twixt
you
and
your
poor
brother
.
Ay
,
but
yet
Let
us
be
keen
and
rather
cut
a
little
Than
fall
and
bruise
to
death
.
Alas
,
this
gentleman
Whom
I
would
save
had
a
most
noble
father
.
Let
but
your
Honor
know
,
Whom
I
believe
to
be
most
strait
in
virtue
,
That
,
in
the
working
of
your
own
affections
,
Had
time
cohered
with
place
,
or
place
with
wishing
,
Or
that
the
resolute
acting
of
your
blood
Could
have
attained
th’
effect
of
your
own
purpose
,
Whether
you
had
not
sometime
in
your
life
Erred
in
this
point
which
now
you
censure
him
,
And
pulled
the
law
upon
you
.
Sir
,
but
you
shall
come
to
it
,
by
your
Honor’s
leave
.
And
I
beseech
you
,
look
into
Master
Froth
here
,
sir
,
a
man
of
fourscore
pound
a
year
,
whose
father
died
at
Hallowmas
—
was
’t
not
at
Hallowmas
,
Master
Froth
?
I
beseech
you
,
sir
,
look
in
this
gentleman’s
face
.
—
Good
Master
Froth
,
look
upon
his
Honor
.
’Tis
for
a
good
purpose
.
—
Doth
your
Honor
mark
his
face
?
Look
you
bring
me
in
the
names
of
some
six
or
seven
,
the
most
sufficient
of
your
parish
.
It
is
but
needful
.
Mercy
is
not
itself
that
oft
looks
so
.
Pardon
is
still
the
nurse
of
second
woe
.
But
yet
,
poor
Claudio
.
There
is
no
remedy
.
Come
,
sir
.
Look
what
I
will
not
,
that
I
cannot
do
.
The
law
hath
not
been
dead
,
though
it
hath
slept
.
Those
many
had
not
dared
to
do
that
evil
If
the
first
that
did
th’
edict
infringe
Had
answered
for
his
deed
.
Now
’tis
awake
,
Takes
note
of
what
is
done
,
and
,
like
a
prophet
,
Looks
in
a
glass
that
shows
what
future
evils
—
Either
now
,
or
by
remissness
new-conceived
,
And
so
in
progress
to
be
hatched
and
born
—
Are
now
to
have
no
successive
degrees
But
,
ere
they
live
,
to
end
.
I
would
do
more
than
that
if
more
were
needful
.
Look
,
here
comes
one
,
a
gentlewoman
of
mine
,
Who
,
falling
in
the
flaws
of
her
own
youth
,
Hath
blistered
her
report
.
She
is
with
child
,
And
he
that
got
it
,
sentenced
—
a
young
man
,
More
fit
to
do
another
such
offense
Than
die
for
this
.
When
I
would
pray
and
think
,
I
think
and
pray
To
several
subjects
.
Heaven
hath
my
empty
words
,
Whilst
my
invention
,
hearing
not
my
tongue
,
Anchors
on
Isabel
.
God
in
my
mouth
,
As
if
I
did
but
only
chew
His
name
,
And
in
my
heart
the
strong
and
swelling
evil
Of
my
conception
.
The
state
whereon
I
studied
Is
,
like
a
good
thing
being
often
read
,
Grown
sere
and
tedious
.
Yea
,
my
gravity
,
Wherein
—
let
no
man
hear
me
—
I
take
pride
,
Could
I
with
boot
change
for
an
idle
plume
Which
the
air
beats
for
vain
.
O
place
,
O
form
,
How
often
dost
thou
with
thy
case
,
thy
habit
,
Wrench
awe
from
fools
,
and
tie
the
wiser
souls
To
thy
false
seeming
!
Blood
,
thou
art
blood
.
Let’s
write
good
angel
on
the
devil’s
horn
.
’Tis
not
the
devil’s
crest
.
How
now
,
who’s
there
?
Teach
her
the
way
.
O
heavens
,
Why
does
my
blood
thus
muster
to
my
heart
,
Making
both
it
unable
for
itself
And
dispossessing
all
my
other
parts
Of
necessary
fitness
?
So
play
the
foolish
throngs
with
one
that
swoons
,
Come
all
to
help
him
,
and
so
stop
the
air
By
which
he
should
revive
.
And
even
so
The
general
subject
to
a
well-wished
king
Quit
their
own
part
,
and
in
obsequious
fondness
Crowd
to
his
presence
,
where
their
untaught
love
Must
needs
appear
offense
.
How
now
,
fair
maid
?
Ha
!
Little
honor
to
be
much
believed
,
And
most
pernicious
purpose
.
Seeming
,
seeming
!
I
will
proclaim
thee
,
Angelo
,
look
for
’t
.
Sign
me
a
present
pardon
for
my
brother
Or
with
an
outstretched
throat
I’ll
tell
the
world
aloud
What
man
thou
art
.
To
whom
should
I
complain
?
Did
I
tell
this
,
Who
would
believe
me
?
O
,
perilous
mouths
,
That
bear
in
them
one
and
the
selfsame
tongue
,
Either
of
condemnation
or
approof
,
Bidding
the
law
make
curtsy
to
their
will
,
Hooking
both
right
and
wrong
to
th’
appetite
,
To
follow
as
it
draws
.
I’ll
to
my
brother
.
Though
he
hath
fall’n
by
prompture
of
the
blood
,
Yet
hath
he
in
him
such
a
mind
of
honor
That
,
had
he
twenty
heads
to
tender
down
On
twenty
bloody
blocks
,
he’d
yield
them
up
Before
his
sister
should
her
body
stoop
To
such
abhorred
pollution
.
Then
,
Isabel
,
live
chaste
,
and
,
brother
,
die
.
More
than
our
brother
is
our
chastity
.
I’ll
tell
him
yet
of
Angelo’s
request
,
And
fit
his
mind
to
death
,
for
his
soul’s
rest
.
And
very
welcome
.
—
Look
,
signior
,
here’s
your
sister
.
Ay
,
but
to
die
,
and
go
we
know
not
where
,
To
lie
in
cold
obstruction
and
to
rot
,
This
sensible
warm
motion
to
become
A
kneaded
clod
;
and
the
delighted
spirit
To
bathe
in
fiery
floods
,
or
to
reside
In
thrilling
region
of
thick-ribbèd
ice
,
To
be
imprisoned
in
the
viewless
winds
And
blown
with
restless
violence
round
about
The
pendent
world
;
or
to
be
worse
than
worst
Of
those
that
lawless
and
incertain
thought
Imagine
howling
—
’tis
too
horrible
.
The
weariest
and
most
loathèd
worldly
life
That
age
,
ache
,
penury
,
and
imprisonment
Can
lay
on
nature
is
a
paradise
To
what
we
fear
of
death
.
O
,
you
beast
!
O
faithless
coward
,
O
dishonest
wretch
,
Wilt
thou
be
made
a
man
out
of
my
vice
?
Is
’t
not
a
kind
of
incest
to
take
life
From
thine
own
sister’s
shame
?
What
should
I
think
?
Heaven
shield
my
mother
played
my
father
fair
,
For
such
a
warpèd
slip
of
wilderness
Ne’er
issued
from
his
blood
.
Take
my
defiance
;
Die
,
perish
.
Might
but
my
bending
down
Reprieve
thee
from
thy
fate
,
it
should
proceed
.
I’ll
pray
a
thousand
prayers
for
thy
death
,
No
word
to
save
thee
.
Pray
,
sir
,
by
your
good
favor
—
for
surely
,
sir
,
a
good
favor
you
have
,
but
that
you
have
a
hanging
look
—
do
you
call
,
sir
,
your
occupation
a
mystery
?
Call
hither
Barnardine
and
Claudio
.
Th’
one
has
my
pity
;
not
a
jot
the
other
,
Being
a
murderer
,
though
he
were
my
brother
.
Look
,
here’s
the
warrant
,
Claudio
,
for
thy
death
.
’Tis
now
dead
midnight
,
and
by
eight
tomorrow
Thou
must
be
made
immortal
.
Where’s
Barnardine
?
Not
a
resemblance
,
but
a
certainty
;
yet
since
I
see
you
fearful
,
that
neither
my
coat
,
integrity
,
nor
persuasion
can
with
ease
attempt
you
,
I
will
go
further
than
I
meant
,
to
pluck
all
fears
out
of
you
.
Look
you
,
sir
,
here
is
the
hand
and
seal
of
the
Duke
.
You
know
the
character
,
I
doubt
not
,
and
the
signet
is
not
strange
to
you
.
The
contents
of
this
is
the
return
of
the
Duke
;
you
shall
anon
overread
it
at
your
pleasure
,
where
you
shall
find
within
these
two
days
he
will
be
here
.
This
is
a
thing
that
Angelo
knows
not
,
for
he
this
very
day
receives
letters
of
strange
tenor
,
perchance
of
the
Duke’s
death
,
perchance
entering
into
some
monastery
,
but
by
chance
nothing
of
what
is
writ
.
Look
,
th’
unfolding
star
calls
up
the
shepherd
.
Put
not
yourself
into
amazement
how
these
things
should
be
.
All
difficulties
are
but
easy
when
they
are
known
.
Call
your
executioner
,
and
off
with
Barnardine’s
head
.
I
will
give
him
a
present
shrift
,
and
advise
him
for
a
better
place
.
Yet
you
are
amazed
,
but
this
shall
absolutely
resolve
you
.
Come
away
;
it
is
almost
clear
dawn
.
Truly
,
sir
,
I
would
desire
you
to
clap
into
your
prayers
,
for
,
look
you
,
the
warrant’s
come
.
Look
you
,
sir
,
here
comes
your
ghostly
father
.
Do
we
jest
now
,
think
you
?
O
,
sir
,
you
must
.
And
therefore
I
beseech
you
look
forward
on
the
journey
you
shall
go
.
My
husband
bids
me
.
Now
I
will
unmask
.
This
is
that
face
,
thou
cruel
Angelo
,
Which
once
thou
swor’st
was
worth
the
looking
on
.
This
is
the
hand
which
,
with
a
vowed
contract
,
Was
fast
belocked
in
thine
.
This
is
the
body
That
took
away
the
match
from
Isabel
And
did
supply
thee
at
thy
garden
house
In
her
imagined
person
.
The
Duke’s
in
us
,
and
we
will
hear
you
speak
.
Look
you
speak
justly
.
Be
not
so
hot
.
The
Duke
Dare
no
more
stretch
this
finger
of
mine
than
he
Dare
rack
his
own
.
His
subject
am
I
not
,
Nor
here
provincial
.
My
business
in
this
state
Made
me
a
looker-on
here
in
Vienna
,
Where
I
have
seen
corruption
boil
and
bubble
Till
it
o’errun
the
stew
.
Laws
for
all
faults
,
But
faults
so
countenanced
that
the
strong
statutes
Stand
like
the
forfeits
in
a
barber’s
shop
,
As
much
in
mock
as
mark
.
O
my
dread
lord
,
I
should
be
guiltier
than
my
guiltiness
To
think
I
can
be
undiscernible
,
When
I
perceive
your
Grace
,
like
power
divine
,
Hath
looked
upon
my
passes
.
Then
,
good
prince
,
No
longer
session
hold
upon
my
shame
,
But
let
my
trial
be
mine
own
confession
.
Immediate
sentence
then
and
sequent
death
Is
all
the
grace
I
beg
.
Most
bounteous
sir
,
Look
,
if
it
please
you
,
on
this
man
condemned
As
if
my
brother
lived
.
I
partly
think
A
due
sincerity
governed
his
deeds
Till
he
did
look
on
me
.
Since
it
is
so
,
Let
him
not
die
.
My
brother
had
but
justice
,
In
that
he
did
the
thing
for
which
he
died
.
For
Angelo
,
His
act
did
not
o’ertake
his
bad
intent
,
And
must
be
buried
but
as
an
intent
That
perished
by
the
way
.
Thoughts
are
no
subjects
,
Intents
but
merely
thoughts
.
I
would
thou
hadst
done
so
by
Claudio
.
Go
fetch
him
hither
.
Let
me
look
upon
him
.
I
am
sorry
one
so
learnèd
and
so
wise
As
you
,
Lord
Angelo
,
have
still
appeared
,
Should
slip
so
grossly
,
both
in
the
heat
of
blood
And
lack
of
tempered
judgment
afterward
.
If
he
be
like
your
brother
,
for
his
sake
Is
he
pardoned
;
and
for
your
lovely
sake
,
Give
me
your
hand
and
say
you
will
be
mine
,
He
is
my
brother
too
.
But
fitter
time
for
that
.
By
this
Lord
Angelo
perceives
he’s
safe
;
Methinks
I
see
a
quick’ning
in
his
eye
.
—
Well
,
Angelo
,
your
evil
quits
you
well
.
Look
that
you
love
your
wife
,
her
worth
worth
yours
.
I
find
an
apt
remission
in
myself
.
And
yet
here’s
one
in
place
I
cannot
pardon
.
You
,
sirrah
,
that
knew
me
for
a
fool
,
a
coward
,
One
all
of
luxury
,
an
ass
,
a
madman
.
Wherein
have
I
so
deserved
of
you
That
you
extol
me
thus
?
Slandering
a
prince
deserves
it
.
She
,
Claudio
,
that
you
wronged
,
look
you
restore
.
—
Joy
to
you
,
Mariana
.
—
Love
her
,
Angelo
.
I
have
confessed
her
,
and
I
know
her
virtue
.
—
Thanks
,
good
friend
Escalus
,
for
thy
much
goodness
.
There’s
more
behind
that
is
more
gratulate
.
—
Thanks
,
provost
,
for
thy
care
and
secrecy
.
We
shall
employ
thee
in
a
worthier
place
.
—
Forgive
him
,
Angelo
,
that
brought
you
home
The
head
of
Ragozine
for
Claudio’s
.
Th’
offense
pardons
itself
.
—
Dear
Isabel
,
I
have
a
motion
much
imports
your
good
,
Whereto
if
you’ll
a
willing
ear
incline
,
What’s
mine
is
yours
,
and
what
is
yours
is
mine
.
—
So
,
bring
us
to
our
palace
,
where
we’ll
show
What’s
yet
behind
that’s
meet
you
all
should
know
.
A
dear
happiness
to
women
.
They
would
else
have
been
troubled
with
a
pernicious
suitor
.
I
thank
God
and
my
cold
blood
I
am
of
your
humor
for
that
.
I
had
rather
hear
my
dog
bark
at
a
crow
than
a
man
swear
he
loves
me
.
I noted her not , but I looked on her .
In
mine
eye
she
is
the
sweetest
lady
that
ever
I
looked
on
.
Is
’t
come
to
this
?
In
faith
,
hath
not
the
world
one
man
but
he
will
wear
his
cap
with
suspicion
?
Shall
I
never
see
a
bachelor
of
threescore
again
?
Go
to
,
i’
faith
,
an
thou
wilt
needs
thrust
thy
neck
into
a
yoke
,
wear
the
print
of
it
,
and
sigh
away
Sundays
.
Look
,
Don
Pedro
is
returned
to
seek
you
.
I shall see thee , ere I die , look pale with love .
With
anger
,
with
sickness
,
or
with
hunger
,
my
lord
,
not
with
love
.
Prove
that
ever
I
lose
more
blood
with
love
than
I
will
get
again
with
drinking
,
pick
out
mine
eyes
with
a
ballad-maker’s
pen
and
hang
me
up
at
the
door
of
a
brothel
house
for
the
sign
of
blind
Cupid
.
I look for an earthquake too , then .
O
,
my
lord
,
When
you
went
onward
on
this
ended
action
,
I
looked
upon
her
with
a
soldier’s
eye
,
That
liked
,
but
had
a
rougher
task
in
hand
Than
to
drive
liking
to
the
name
of
love
.
But
now
I
am
returned
and
that
war
thoughts
Have
left
their
places
vacant
,
in
their
rooms
Come
thronging
soft
and
delicate
desires
,
All
prompting
me
how
fair
young
Hero
is
,
Saying
I
liked
her
ere
I
went
to
wars
.
What
need
the
bridge
much
broader
than
the
flood
?
The
fairest
grant
is
the
necessity
.
Look
what
will
serve
is
fit
.
’Tis
once
,
thou
lovest
,
And
I
will
fit
thee
with
the
remedy
.
I
know
we
shall
have
reveling
tonight
.
I
will
assume
thy
part
in
some
disguise
And
tell
fair
Hero
I
am
Claudio
,
And
in
her
bosom
I’ll
unclasp
my
heart
And
take
her
hearing
prisoner
with
the
force
And
strong
encounter
of
my
amorous
tale
.
Then
after
to
her
father
will
I
break
,
And
the
conclusion
is
,
she
shall
be
thine
.
In
practice
let
us
put
it
presently
.
I
had
rather
be
a
canker
in
a
hedge
than
a
rose
in
his
grace
,
and
it
better
fits
my
blood
to
be
disdained
of
all
than
to
fashion
a
carriage
to
rob
love
from
any
.
In
this
,
though
I
cannot
be
said
to
be
a
flattering
honest
man
,
it
must
not
be
denied
but
I
am
a
plain-dealing
villain
.
I
am
trusted
with
a
muzzle
and
enfranchised
with
a
clog
;
therefore
I
have
decreed
not
to
sing
in
my
cage
.
If
I
had
my
mouth
,
I
would
bite
;
if
I
had
my
liberty
,
I
would
do
my
liking
.
In
the
meantime
,
let
me
be
that
I
am
,
and
seek
not
to
alter
me
.
A
proper
squire
.
And
who
,
and
who
?
Which
way
looks
he
?
How
tartly
that
gentleman
looks
!
I
never
can
see
him
but
I
am
heartburned
an
hour
after
.
So
you
walk
softly
,
and
look
sweetly
,
and
say
nothing
,
I
am
yours
for
the
walk
,
and
especially
when
I
walk
away
.
Thus
answer
I
in
name
of
Benedick
,
But
hear
these
ill
news
with
the
ears
of
Claudio
.
’Tis
certain
so
.
The
Prince
woos
for
himself
.
Friendship
is
constant
in
all
other
things
Save
in
the
office
and
affairs
of
love
.
Therefore
all
hearts
in
love
use
their
own
tongues
.
Let
every
eye
negotiate
for
itself
And
trust
no
agent
,
for
beauty
is
a
witch
Against
whose
charms
faith
melteth
into
blood
.
This
is
an
accident
of
hourly
proof
,
Which
I
mistrusted
not
.
Farewell
therefore
,
Hero
.
Look , here she comes .
Niece
,
will
you
look
to
those
things
I
told
you
of
?
I
can
,
at
any
unseasonable
instant
of
the
night
,
appoint
her
to
look
out
at
her
lady’s
chamber
window
.
Proof
enough
to
misuse
the
Prince
,
to
vex
Claudio
,
to
undo
Hero
,
and
kill
Leonato
.
Look
you
for
any
other
issue
?
I
know
that
,
but
I
would
have
thee
hence
and
here
again
.
I
do
much
wonder
that
one
man
,
seeing
how
much
another
man
is
a
fool
when
he
dedicates
his
behaviors
to
love
,
will
,
after
he
hath
laughed
at
such
shallow
follies
in
others
,
become
the
argument
of
his
own
scorn
by
falling
in
love
—
and
such
a
man
is
Claudio
.
I
have
known
when
there
was
no
music
with
him
but
the
drum
and
the
fife
,
and
now
had
he
rather
hear
the
tabor
and
the
pipe
;
I
have
known
when
he
would
have
walked
ten
mile
afoot
to
see
a
good
armor
,
and
now
will
he
lie
ten
nights
awake
carving
the
fashion
of
a
new
doublet
.
He
was
wont
to
speak
plain
and
to
the
purpose
,
like
an
honest
man
and
a
soldier
,
and
now
is
he
turned
orthography
;
his
words
are
a
very
fantastical
banquet
,
just
so
many
strange
dishes
.
May
I
be
so
converted
and
see
with
these
eyes
?
I
cannot
tell
;
I
think
not
.
I
will
not
be
sworn
but
love
may
transform
me
to
an
oyster
,
but
I’ll
take
my
oath
on
it
,
till
he
have
made
an
oyster
of
me
,
he
shall
never
make
me
such
a
fool
.
One
woman
is
fair
,
yet
I
am
well
;
another
is
wise
,
yet
I
am
well
;
another
virtuous
,
yet
I
am
well
;
but
till
all
graces
be
in
one
woman
,
one
woman
shall
not
come
in
my
grace
.
Rich
she
shall
be
,
that’s
certain
;
wise
,
or
I’ll
none
;
virtuous
,
or
I’ll
never
cheapen
her
;
fair
,
or
I’ll
never
look
on
her
;
mild
,
or
come
not
near
me
;
noble
,
or
not
I
for
an
angel
;
of
good
discourse
,
an
excellent
musician
,
and
her
hair
shall
be
of
what
color
it
please
God
.
Ha
!
The
Prince
and
Monsieur
Love
!
I
will
hide
me
in
the
arbor
.
O
,
my
lord
,
wisdom
and
blood
combating
in
so
tender
a
body
,
we
have
ten
proofs
to
one
that
blood
hath
the
victory
.
I
am
sorry
for
her
,
as
I
have
just
cause
,
being
her
uncle
and
her
guardian
.
Now
,
Ursula
,
when
Beatrice
doth
come
,
As
we
do
trace
this
alley
up
and
down
,
Our
talk
must
only
be
of
Benedick
.
When
I
do
name
him
,
let
it
be
thy
part
To
praise
him
more
than
ever
man
did
merit
.
My
talk
to
thee
must
be
how
Benedick
Is
sick
in
love
with
Beatrice
.
Of
this
matter
Is
little
Cupid’s
crafty
arrow
made
,
That
only
wounds
by
hearsay
.
Now
begin
,
For
look
where
Beatrice
like
a
lapwing
runs
Close
by
the
ground
,
to
hear
our
conference
.
O
god
of
love
!
I
know
he
doth
deserve
As
much
as
may
be
yielded
to
a
man
,
But
Nature
never
framed
a
woman’s
heart
Of
prouder
stuff
than
that
of
Beatrice
.
Disdain
and
scorn
ride
sparkling
in
her
eyes
,
Misprizing
what
they
look
on
,
and
her
wit
Values
itself
so
highly
that
to
her
All
matter
else
seems
weak
.
She
cannot
love
,
Nor
take
no
shape
nor
project
of
affection
,
She
is
so
self-endeared
.
Hang
him
,
truant
!
There’s
no
true
drop
of
blood
in
him
to
be
truly
touched
with
love
.
If
he
be
sad
,
he
wants
money
.
Indeed
he
looks
younger
than
he
did
,
by
the
loss
of
a
beard
.
Seest
thou
not
,
I
say
,
what
a
deformed
thief
this
fashion
is
,
how
giddily
he
turns
about
all
the
hot
bloods
between
fourteen
and
five-and-thirty
,
sometimes
fashioning
them
like
Pharaoh’s
soldiers
in
the
reechy
painting
,
sometimes
like
god
Bel’s
priests
in
the
old
church
window
,
sometimes
like
the
shaven
Hercules
in
the
smirched
worm-eaten
tapestry
,
where
his
codpiece
seems
as
massy
as
his
club
?
Moral
?
No
,
by
my
troth
,
I
have
no
moral
meaning
;
I
meant
plain
holy
thistle
.
You
may
think
perchance
that
I
think
you
are
in
love
.
Nay
,
by
’r
Lady
,
I
am
not
such
a
fool
to
think
what
I
list
,
nor
I
list
not
to
think
what
I
can
,
nor
indeed
I
cannot
think
,
if
I
would
think
my
heart
out
of
thinking
,
that
you
are
in
love
or
that
you
will
be
in
love
or
that
you
can
be
in
love
.
Yet
Benedick
was
such
another
,
and
now
is
he
become
a
man
.
He
swore
he
would
never
marry
,
and
yet
now
,
in
despite
of
his
heart
,
he
eats
his
meat
without
grudging
.
And
how
you
may
be
converted
I
know
not
,
but
methinks
you
look
with
your
eyes
as
other
women
do
.
Sweet
prince
,
you
learn
me
noble
thankfulness
.
—
There
,
Leonato
,
take
her
back
again
.
Give
not
this
rotten
orange
to
your
friend
.
She’s
but
the
sign
and
semblance
of
her
honor
.
Behold
how
like
a
maid
she
blushes
here
!
O
,
what
authority
and
show
of
truth
Can
cunning
sin
cover
itself
withal
!
Comes
not
that
blood
as
modest
evidence
To
witness
simple
virtue
?
Would
you
not
swear
,
All
you
that
see
her
,
that
she
were
a
maid
,
By
these
exterior
shows
?
But
she
is
none
.
She
knows
the
heat
of
a
luxurious
bed
.
Her
blush
is
guiltiness
,
not
modesty
.
Out
on
thee
,
seeming
!
I
will
write
against
it
.
You
seem
to
me
as
Dian
in
her
orb
,
As
chaste
as
is
the
bud
ere
it
be
blown
.
But
you
are
more
intemperate
in
your
blood
Than
Venus
,
or
those
pampered
animals
That
rage
in
savage
sensuality
.
This looks not like a nuptial .
Dost
thou
look
up
?
Wherefore
?
Why
,
doth
not
every
earthly
thing
Cry
shame
upon
her
?
Could
she
here
deny
The
story
that
is
printed
in
her
blood
?
—
Do
not
live
,
Hero
,
do
not
ope
thine
eyes
,
For
,
did
I
think
thou
wouldst
not
quickly
die
,
Thought
I
thy
spirits
were
stronger
than
thy
shames
,
Myself
would
,
on
the
rearward
of
reproaches
,
Strike
at
thy
life
.
Grieved
I
I
had
but
one
?
Chid
I
for
that
at
frugal
Nature’s
frame
?
O
,
one
too
much
by
thee
!
Why
had
I
one
?
Why
ever
wast
thou
lovely
in
my
eyes
?
Why
had
I
not
with
charitable
hand
Took
up
a
beggar’s
issue
at
my
gates
,
Who
,
smirchèd
thus
,
and
mired
with
infamy
,
I
might
have
said
No
part
of
it
is
mine
;
This
shame
derives
itself
from
unknown
loins
?
But
mine
,
and
mine
I
loved
,
and
mine
I
praised
,
And
mine
that
I
was
proud
on
,
mine
so
much
That
I
myself
was
to
myself
not
mine
,
Valuing
of
her
—
why
she
,
O
she
,
is
fall’n
Into
a
pit
of
ink
,
that
the
wide
sea
Hath
drops
too
few
to
wash
her
clean
again
,
And
salt
too
little
which
may
season
give
To
her
foul
tainted
flesh
!
I
know
not
.
If
they
speak
but
truth
of
her
,
These
hands
shall
tear
her
.
If
they
wrong
her
honor
,
The
proudest
of
them
shall
well
hear
of
it
.
Time
hath
not
yet
so
dried
this
blood
of
mine
,
Nor
age
so
eat
up
my
invention
,
Nor
fortune
made
such
havoc
of
my
means
,
Nor
my
bad
life
reft
me
so
much
of
friends
,
But
they
shall
find
,
awaked
in
such
a
kind
,
Both
strength
of
limb
and
policy
of
mind
,
Ability
in
means
and
choice
of
friends
,
To
quit
me
of
them
throughly
.
Marry
,
this
well
carried
shall
on
her
behalf
Change
slander
to
remorse
.
That
is
some
good
.
But
not
for
that
dream
I
on
this
strange
course
,
But
on
this
travail
look
for
greater
birth
.
She
,
dying
,
as
it
must
be
so
maintained
,
Upon
the
instant
that
she
was
accused
,
Shall
be
lamented
,
pitied
,
and
excused
Of
every
hearer
.
For
it
so
falls
out
That
what
we
have
we
prize
not
to
the
worth
Whiles
we
enjoy
it
,
but
being
lacked
and
lost
,
Why
then
we
rack
the
value
,
then
we
find
The
virtue
that
possession
would
not
show
us
Whiles
it
was
ours
.
So
will
it
fare
with
Claudio
.
When
he
shall
hear
she
died
upon
his
words
,
Th’
idea
of
her
life
shall
sweetly
creep
Into
his
study
of
imagination
,
And
every
lovely
organ
of
her
life
Shall
come
appareled
in
more
precious
habit
,
More
moving
,
delicate
,
and
full
of
life
,
Into
the
eye
and
prospect
of
his
soul
,
Than
when
she
lived
indeed
.
Then
shall
he
mourn
,
If
ever
love
had
interest
in
his
liver
,
And
wish
he
had
not
so
accused
her
,
No
,
though
he
thought
his
accusation
true
.
Let
this
be
so
,
and
doubt
not
but
success
Will
fashion
the
event
in
better
shape
Than
I
can
lay
it
down
in
likelihood
.
But
if
all
aim
but
this
be
leveled
false
,
The
supposition
of
the
lady’s
death
Will
quench
the
wonder
of
her
infamy
.
And
if
it
sort
not
well
,
you
may
conceal
her
,
As
best
befits
her
wounded
reputation
,
In
some
reclusive
and
religious
life
,
Out
of
all
eyes
,
tongues
,
minds
,
and
injuries
.
Pray
thee
,
fellow
,
peace
.
I
do
not
like
thy
look
,
I
promise
thee
.
I
pray
thee
,
peace
.
I
will
be
flesh
and
blood
,
For
there
was
never
yet
philosopher
That
could
endure
the
toothache
patiently
,
However
they
have
writ
the
style
of
gods
And
made
a
push
at
chance
and
sufferance
.
My
lord
,
my
lord
,
I’ll
prove
it
on
his
body
if
he
dare
,
Despite
his
nice
fence
and
his
active
practice
,
His
May
of
youth
and
bloom
of
lustihood
.
As
I
am
an
honest
man
,
he
looks
pale
.
—
Art
thou
sick
,
or
angry
?
Come
you
,
sir
.
If
justice
cannot
tame
you
,
she
shall
ne’er
weigh
more
reasons
in
her
balance
.
Nay
,
an
you
be
a
cursing
hypocrite
once
,
you
must
be
looked
to
.
Runs
not
this
speech
like
iron
through
your
blood
?
If
you
would
know
your
wronger
,
look
on
me
.
Farewell
,
my
lords
.
We
look
for
you
tomorrow
.
Good
morrow
,
masters
.
Put
your
torches
out
.
The
wolves
have
preyed
,
and
look
,
the
gentle
day
Before
the
wheels
of
Phoebus
,
round
about
Dapples
the
drowsy
east
with
spots
of
gray
.
Thanks
to
you
all
,
and
leave
us
.
Fare
you
well
.
I
had
well
hoped
thou
wouldst
have
denied
Beatrice
,
that
I
might
have
cudgeled
thee
out
of
thy
single
life
,
to
make
thee
a
double-dealer
,
which
out
of
question
thou
wilt
be
,
if
my
cousin
do
not
look
exceeding
narrowly
to
thee
.
’Sblood
,
but
you’ll
not
hear
me
!
If
ever
I
did
dream
of
such
a
matter
,
Abhor
me
.
Awake
!
What
ho
,
Brabantio
!
Thieves
,
thieves
!
Look
to
your
house
,
your
daughter
,
and
your
bags
!
Thieves
,
thieves
!
Sir
,
I
will
answer
anything
.
But
I
beseech
you
,
If
’t
be
your
pleasure
and
most
wise
consent
—
As
partly
I
find
it
is
—
that
your
fair
daughter
,
At
this
odd-even
and
dull
watch
o’
th’
night
,
Transported
with
no
worse
nor
better
guard
But
with
a
knave
of
common
hire
,
a
gondolier
,
To
the
gross
clasps
of
a
lascivious
Moor
:
If
this
be
known
to
you
,
and
your
allowance
,
We
then
have
done
you
bold
and
saucy
wrongs
.
But
if
you
know
not
this
,
my
manners
tell
me
We
have
your
wrong
rebuke
.
Do
not
believe
That
from
the
sense
of
all
civility
I
thus
would
play
and
trifle
with
your
Reverence
.
Your
daughter
,
if
you
have
not
given
her
leave
,
I
say
again
,
hath
made
a
gross
revolt
,
Tying
her
duty
,
beauty
,
wit
,
and
fortunes
In
an
extravagant
and
wheeling
stranger
Of
here
and
everywhere
.
Straight
satisfy
yourself
.
If
she
be
in
her
chamber
or
your
house
,
Let
loose
on
me
the
justice
of
the
state
For
thus
deluding
you
.
O
heaven
!
How
got
she
out
?
O
treason
of
the
blood
!
Fathers
,
from
hence
trust
not
your
daughters’
minds
By
what
you
see
them
act
.
—
Is
there
not
charms
By
which
the
property
of
youth
and
maidhood
May
be
abused
?
Have
you
not
read
,
Roderigo
,
Of
some
such
thing
?
Let
him
do
his
spite
.
My
services
which
I
have
done
the
signiory
Shall
out-tongue
his
complaints
.
’Tis
yet
to
know
(
Which
,
when
I
know
that
boasting
is
an
honor
,
I
shall
promulgate
)
I
fetch
my
life
and
being
From
men
of
royal
siege
,
and
my
demerits
May
speak
unbonneted
to
as
proud
a
fortune
As
this
that
I
have
reached
.
For
know
,
Iago
,
But
that
I
love
the
gentle
Desdemona
,
I
would
not
my
unhousèd
free
condition
Put
into
circumscription
and
confine
For
the
sea’s
worth
.
But
look
,
what
lights
come
yond
?
So
did
I
yours
.
Good
your
Grace
,
pardon
me
.
Neither
my
place
nor
aught
I
heard
of
business
Hath
raised
me
from
my
bed
,
nor
doth
the
general
care
Take
hold
on
me
,
for
my
particular
grief
Is
of
so
floodgate
and
o’erbearing
nature
That
it
engluts
and
swallows
other
sorrows
And
it
is
still
itself
.
Whoe’er
he
be
that
in
this
foul
proceeding
Hath
thus
beguiled
your
daughter
of
herself
And
you
of
her
,
the
bloody
book
of
law
You
shall
yourself
read
in
the
bitter
letter
,
After
your
own
sense
,
yea
,
though
our
proper
son
Stood
in
your
action
.
A
maiden
never
bold
,
Of
spirit
so
still
and
quiet
that
her
motion
Blushed
at
herself
.
And
she
,
in
spite
of
nature
,
Of
years
,
of
country
,
credit
,
everything
,
To
fall
in
love
with
what
she
feared
to
look
on
!
It
is
a
judgment
maimed
and
most
imperfect
That
will
confess
perfection
so
could
err
Against
all
rules
of
nature
,
and
must
be
driven
To
find
out
practices
of
cunning
hell
Why
this
should
be
.
I
therefore
vouch
again
That
with
some
mixtures
powerful
o’er
the
blood
,
Or
with
some
dram
conjured
to
this
effect
,
He
wrought
upon
her
.
Ancient
,
conduct
them
.
You
best
know
the
place
.
And
till
she
come
,
as
truly
as
to
heaven
I
do
confess
the
vices
of
my
blood
,
So
justly
to
your
grave
ears
I’ll
present
How
I
did
thrive
in
this
fair
lady’s
love
,
And
she
in
mine
.
Her
father
loved
me
,
oft
invited
me
,
Still
questioned
me
the
story
of
my
life
From
year
to
year
—
the
battles
,
sieges
,
fortunes
That
I
have
passed
.
I
ran
it
through
,
even
from
my
boyish
days
To
th’
very
moment
that
he
bade
me
tell
it
,
Wherein
I
spoke
of
most
disastrous
chances
:
Of
moving
accidents
by
flood
and
field
,
Of
hairbreadth
’scapes
i’
th’
imminent
deadly
breach
,
Of
being
taken
by
the
insolent
foe
And
sold
to
slavery
,
of
my
redemption
thence
,
And
portance
in
my
traveler’s
history
,
Wherein
of
antres
vast
and
deserts
idle
,
Rough
quarries
,
rocks
,
and
hills
whose
heads
touch
heaven
,
It
was
my
hint
to
speak
—
such
was
my
process
—
And
of
the
cannibals
that
each
other
eat
,
The
Anthropophagi
,
and
men
whose
heads
Do
grow
beneath
their
shoulders
.
These
things
to
hear
Would
Desdemona
seriously
incline
.
But
still
the
house
affairs
would
draw
her
thence
,
Which
ever
as
she
could
with
haste
dispatch
She’d
come
again
,
and
with
a
greedy
ear
Devour
up
my
discourse
.
Which
I
,
observing
,
Took
once
a
pliant
hour
,
and
found
good
means
To
draw
from
her
a
prayer
of
earnest
heart
That
I
would
all
my
pilgrimage
dilate
,
Whereof
by
parcels
she
had
something
heard
,
But
not
intentively
.
I
did
consent
,
And
often
did
beguile
her
of
her
tears
When
I
did
speak
of
some
distressful
stroke
That
my
youth
suffered
.
My
story
being
done
,
She
gave
me
for
my
pains
a
world
of
sighs
.
She
swore
,
in
faith
,
’twas
strange
,
’twas
passing
strange
,
’Twas
pitiful
,
’twas
wondrous
pitiful
.
She
wished
she
had
not
heard
it
,
yet
she
wished
That
heaven
had
made
her
such
a
man
.
She
thanked
me
,
And
bade
me
,
if
I
had
a
friend
that
loved
her
,
I
should
but
teach
him
how
to
tell
my
story
,
And
that
would
woo
her
.
Upon
this
hint
I
spake
.
She
loved
me
for
the
dangers
I
had
passed
,
And
I
loved
her
that
she
did
pity
them
.
This
only
is
the
witchcraft
I
have
used
.
Here
comes
the
lady
.
Let
her
witness
it
.
Look
to
her
,
Moor
,
if
thou
hast
eyes
to
see
.
She
has
deceived
her
father
,
and
may
thee
.
O
,
villainous
!
I
have
looked
upon
the
world
for
four
times
seven
years
,
and
since
I
could
distinguish
betwixt
a
benefit
and
an
injury
,
I
never
found
man
that
knew
how
to
love
himself
.
Ere
I
would
say
I
would
drown
myself
for
the
love
of
a
guinea
hen
,
I
would
change
my
humanity
with
a
baboon
.
Virtue
?
A
fig
!
’Tis
in
ourselves
that
we
are
thus
or
thus
.
Our
bodies
are
our
gardens
,
to
the
which
our
wills
are
gardeners
.
So
that
if
we
will
plant
nettles
or
sow
lettuce
,
set
hyssop
and
weed
up
thyme
,
supply
it
with
one
gender
of
herbs
or
distract
it
with
many
,
either
to
have
it
sterile
with
idleness
or
manured
with
industry
,
why
the
power
and
corrigible
authority
of
this
lies
in
our
wills
.
If
the
balance
of
our
lives
had
not
one
scale
of
reason
to
poise
another
of
sensuality
,
the
blood
and
baseness
of
our
natures
would
conduct
us
to
most
prepost’rous
conclusions
.
But
we
have
reason
to
cool
our
raging
motions
,
our
carnal
stings
,
our
unbitted
lusts
—
whereof
I
take
this
that
you
call
love
to
be
a
sect
,
or
scion
.
It
is
merely
a
lust
of
the
blood
and
a
permission
of
the
will
.
Come
,
be
a
man
!
Drown
thyself
?
Drown
cats
and
blind
puppies
.
I
have
professed
me
thy
friend
,
and
I
confess
me
knit
to
thy
deserving
with
cables
of
perdurable
toughness
.
I
could
never
better
stead
thee
than
now
.
Put
money
in
thy
purse
.
Follow
thou
the
wars
;
defeat
thy
favor
with
an
usurped
beard
.
I
say
,
put
money
in
thy
purse
.
It
cannot
be
that
Desdemona
should
long
continue
her
love
to
the
Moor
—
put
money
in
thy
purse
—
nor
he
his
to
her
.
It
was
a
violent
commencement
in
her
,
and
thou
shalt
see
an
answerable
sequestration
—
put
but
money
in
thy
purse
.
These
Moors
are
changeable
in
their
wills
.
Fill
thy
purse
with
money
.
The
food
that
to
him
now
is
as
luscious
as
locusts
shall
be
to
him
shortly
as
bitter
as
coloquintida
.
She
must
change
for
youth
.
When
she
is
sated
with
his
body
she
will
find
the
error
of
her
choice
.
Therefore
,
put
money
in
thy
purse
.
If
thou
wilt
needs
damn
thyself
,
do
it
a
more
delicate
way
than
drowning
.
Make
all
the
money
thou
canst
.
If
sanctimony
and
a
frail
vow
betwixt
an
erring
barbarian
and
a
supersubtle
Venetian
be
not
too
hard
for
my
wits
and
all
the
tribe
of
hell
,
thou
shalt
enjoy
her
.
Therefore
make
money
.
A
pox
of
drowning
thyself
!
It
is
clean
out
of
the
way
.
Seek
thou
rather
to
be
hanged
in
compassing
thy
joy
than
to
be
drowned
and
go
without
her
.
Nothing
at
all
.
It
is
a
high-wrought
flood
.
I
cannot
’twixt
the
heaven
and
the
main
Descry
a
sail
.
A
segregation
of
the
Turkish
fleet
.
For
do
but
stand
upon
the
foaming
shore
,
The
chidden
billow
seems
to
pelt
the
clouds
,
The
wind-shaked
surge
,
with
high
and
monstrous
mane
,
Seems
to
cast
water
on
the
burning
Bear
And
quench
the
guards
of
th’
ever-fixèd
pole
.
I
never
did
like
molestation
view
On
the
enchafèd
flood
.
But
this
same
Cassio
,
though
he
speak
of
comfort
Touching
the
Turkish
loss
,
yet
he
looks
sadly
And
prays
the
Moor
be
safe
,
for
they
were
parted
With
foul
and
violent
tempest
.
She
that
was
ever
fair
and
never
proud
,
Had
tongue
at
will
and
yet
was
never
loud
,
Never
lacked
gold
and
yet
went
never
gay
,
Fled
from
her
wish
,
and
yet
said
Now
I
may
,
She
that
being
angered
,
her
revenge
being
nigh
,
Bade
her
wrong
stay
and
her
displeasure
fly
,
She
that
in
wisdom
never
was
so
frail
To
change
the
cod’s
head
for
the
salmon’s
tail
,
She
that
could
think
and
ne’er
disclose
her
mind
,
See
suitors
following
and
not
look
behind
,
She
was
a
wight
,
if
ever
such
wight
were
—
Lay
thy
finger
thus
,
and
let
thy
soul
be
instructed
.
Mark
me
with
what
violence
she
first
loved
the
Moor
but
for
bragging
and
telling
her
fantastical
lies
.
And
will
she
love
him
still
for
prating
?
Let
not
thy
discreet
heart
think
it
.
Her
eye
must
be
fed
.
And
what
delight
shall
she
have
to
look
on
the
devil
?
When
the
blood
is
made
dull
with
the
act
of
sport
,
there
should
be
,
again
to
inflame
it
and
to
give
satiety
a
fresh
appetite
,
loveliness
in
favor
,
sympathy
in
years
,
manners
,
and
beauties
,
all
which
the
Moor
is
defective
in
.
Now
,
for
want
of
these
required
conveniences
,
her
delicate
tenderness
will
find
itself
abused
,
begin
to
heave
the
gorge
,
disrelish
and
abhor
the
Moor
.
Very
nature
will
instruct
her
in
it
and
compel
her
to
some
second
choice
.
Now
,
sir
,
this
granted
—
as
it
is
a
most
pregnant
and
unforced
position
—
who
stands
so
eminent
in
the
degree
of
this
fortune
as
Cassio
does
?
A
knave
very
voluble
,
no
further
conscionable
than
in
putting
on
the
mere
form
of
civil
and
humane
seeming
for
the
better
compassing
of
his
salt
and
most
hidden
loose
affection
.
Why
,
none
,
why
,
none
!
A
slipper
and
subtle
knave
,
a
finder-out
of
occasions
,
that
has
an
eye
can
stamp
and
counterfeit
advantages
,
though
true
advantage
never
present
itself
;
a
devilish
knave
!
Besides
,
the
knave
is
handsome
,
young
,
and
hath
all
those
requisites
in
him
that
folly
and
green
minds
look
after
.
A
pestilent
complete
knave
,
and
the
woman
hath
found
him
already
.
Good
Michael
,
look
you
to
the
guard
tonight
.
Let’s
teach
ourselves
that
honorable
stop
Not
to
outsport
discretion
.
Iago
hath
direction
what
to
do
,
But
notwithstanding
,
with
my
personal
eye
Will
I
look
to
’t
.
Ay
,
but
,
by
your
leave
,
not
before
me
.
The
Lieutenant
is
to
be
saved
before
the
Ancient
.
Let’s
have
no
more
of
this
.
Let’s
to
our
affairs
.
God
forgive
us
our
sins
!
Gentlemen
,
let’s
look
to
our
business
.
Do
not
think
,
gentlemen
,
I
am
drunk
.
This
is
my
ancient
,
this
is
my
right
hand
,
and
this
is
my
left
.
I
am
not
drunk
now
.
I
can
stand
well
enough
,
and
I
speak
well
enough
.
It
were
well
The
General
were
put
in
mind
of
it
.
Perhaps
he
sees
it
not
,
or
his
good
nature
Prizes
the
virtue
that
appears
in
Cassio
And
looks
not
on
his
evils
.
Is
not
this
true
?
Why
,
how
now
,
ho
!
From
whence
ariseth
this
?
Are
we
turned
Turks
,
and
to
ourselves
do
that
Which
heaven
hath
forbid
the
Ottomites
?
For
Christian
shame
,
put
by
this
barbarous
brawl
!
He
that
stirs
next
to
carve
for
his
own
rage
Holds
his
soul
light
;
he
dies
upon
his
motion
.
Silence
that
dreadful
bell
.
It
frights
the
isle
From
her
propriety
.
What
is
the
matter
,
masters
?
Honest
Iago
,
that
looks
dead
with
grieving
,
Speak
.
Who
began
this
?
On
thy
love
,
I
charge
thee
.
I
do
not
know
.
Friends
all
but
now
,
even
now
,
In
quarter
and
in
terms
like
bride
and
groom
Divesting
them
for
bed
;
and
then
but
now
,
As
if
some
planet
had
unwitted
men
,
Swords
out
,
and
tilting
one
at
other’s
breast
,
In
opposition
bloody
.
I
cannot
speak
Any
beginning
to
this
peevish
odds
,
And
would
in
action
glorious
I
had
lost
Those
legs
that
brought
me
to
a
part
of
it
!
Now
,
by
heaven
,
My
blood
begins
my
safer
guides
to
rule
,
And
passion
,
having
my
best
judgment
collied
,
Assays
to
lead
the
way
.
Zounds
,
if
I
stir
,
Or
do
but
lift
this
arm
,
the
best
of
you
Shall
sink
in
my
rebuke
.
Give
me
to
know
How
this
foul
rout
began
,
who
set
it
on
;
And
he
that
is
approved
in
this
offense
,
Though
he
had
twinned
with
me
,
both
at
a
birth
,
Shall
lose
me
.
What
,
in
a
town
of
war
Yet
wild
,
the
people’s
hearts
brimful
of
fear
,
To
manage
private
and
domestic
quarrel
,
In
night
,
and
on
the
court
and
guard
of
safety
?
’Tis
monstrous
.
Iago
,
who
began
’t
?
I
know
,
Iago
,
Thy
honesty
and
love
doth
mince
this
matter
,
Making
it
light
to
Cassio
.
—
Cassio
,
I
love
thee
,
But
nevermore
be
officer
of
mine
.
Look
if
my
gentle
love
be
not
raised
up
!
I’ll
make
thee
an
example
.
All’s
well
now
,
sweeting
.
Come
away
to
bed
.
Sir
,
for
your
hurts
,
Myself
will
be
your
surgeon
.
—
Lead
him
off
.
Iago
,
look
with
care
about
the
town
And
silence
those
whom
this
vile
brawl
distracted
.
—
Come
,
Desdemona
.
’Tis
the
soldier’s
life
To
have
their
balmy
slumbers
waked
with
strife
.
I
am
glad
of
this
,
for
now
I
shall
have
reason
To
show
the
love
and
duty
that
I
bear
you
With
franker
spirit
.
Therefore
,
as
I
am
bound
,
Receive
it
from
me
.
I
speak
not
yet
of
proof
.
Look
to
your
wife
;
observe
her
well
with
Cassio
;
Wear
your
eyes
thus
,
not
jealous
nor
secure
.
I
would
not
have
your
free
and
noble
nature
,
Out
of
self-bounty
,
be
abused
.
Look
to
’t
.
I
know
our
country
disposition
well
.
In
Venice
they
do
let
God
see
the
pranks
They
dare
not
show
their
husbands
.
Their
best
conscience
Is
not
to
leave
’t
undone
,
but
keep
’t
unknown
.
She
did
deceive
her
father
,
marrying
you
,
And
when
she
seemed
to
shake
and
fear
your
looks
,
She
loved
them
most
.
This
fellow’s
of
exceeding
honesty
,
And
knows
all
qualities
with
a
learnèd
spirit
Of
human
dealings
.
If
I
do
prove
her
haggard
,
Though
that
her
jesses
were
my
dear
heartstrings
,
I’d
whistle
her
off
and
let
her
down
the
wind
To
prey
at
fortune
.
Haply
,
for
I
am
black
And
have
not
those
soft
parts
of
conversation
That
chamberers
have
,
or
for
I
am
declined
Into
the
vale
of
years
—
yet
that’s
not
much
—
She’s
gone
,
I
am
abused
,
and
my
relief
Must
be
to
loathe
her
.
O
curse
of
marriage
,
That
we
can
call
these
delicate
creatures
ours
And
not
their
appetites
!
I
had
rather
be
a
toad
And
live
upon
the
vapor
of
a
dungeon
Than
keep
a
corner
in
the
thing
I
love
For
others’
uses
.
Yet
’tis
the
plague
of
great
ones
;
Prerogatived
are
they
less
than
the
base
.
’Tis
destiny
unshunnable
,
like
death
.
Even
then
this
forkèd
plague
is
fated
to
us
When
we
do
quicken
.
Look
where
she
comes
.
If
she
be
false
,
heaven
mocks
itself
!
I’ll
not
believe
’t
.
No
,
faith
,
she
let
it
drop
by
negligence
,
And
to
th’
advantage
I
,
being
here
,
took
’t
up
.
Look
,
here
’tis
.
Be
not
acknown
on
’t
.
I
have
use
for
it
.
Go
,
leave
me
.
I
will
in
Cassio’s
lodging
lose
this
napkin
And
let
him
find
it
.
Trifles
light
as
air
Are
to
the
jealous
confirmations
strong
As
proofs
of
holy
writ
.
This
may
do
something
.
The
Moor
already
changes
with
my
poison
;
Dangerous
conceits
are
in
their
natures
poisons
,
Which
at
the
first
are
scarce
found
to
distaste
,
But
with
a
little
act
upon
the
blood
Burn
like
the
mines
of
sulfur
.
I
did
say
so
.
Look
where
he
comes
.
Not
poppy
nor
mandragora
Nor
all
the
drowsy
syrups
of
the
world
Shall
ever
medicine
thee
to
that
sweet
sleep
Which
thou
owedst
yesterday
.
Make
me
to
see
’t
,
or
at
the
least
so
prove
it
That
the
probation
bear
no
hinge
nor
loop
To
hang
a
doubt
on
,
or
woe
upon
thy
life
!
I
do
not
like
the
office
,
But
sith
I
am
entered
in
this
cause
so
far
,
Pricked
to
’t
by
foolish
honesty
and
love
,
I
will
go
on
.
I
lay
with
Cassio
lately
,
And
being
troubled
with
a
raging
tooth
I
could
not
sleep
.
There
are
a
kind
of
men
So
loose
of
soul
that
in
their
sleeps
will
mutter
Their
affairs
.
One
of
this
kind
is
Cassio
.
In
sleep
I
heard
him
say
Sweet
Desdemona
,
Let
us
be
wary
,
let
us
hide
our
loves
.
And
then
,
sir
,
would
he
gripe
and
wring
my
hand
,
Cry
O
sweet
creature
!
then
kiss
me
hard
,
As
if
he
plucked
up
kisses
by
the
roots
That
grew
upon
my
lips
;
then
laid
his
leg
O’er
my
thigh
,
and
sighed
,
and
kissed
,
and
then
Cried
Cursèd
fate
that
gave
thee
to
the
Moor
!
O
,
that
the
slave
had
forty
thousand
lives
!
One
is
too
poor
,
too
weak
for
my
revenge
.
Now
do
I
see
’tis
true
.
Look
here
,
Iago
,
All
my
fond
love
thus
do
I
blow
to
heaven
.
’Tis
gone
.
Arise
,
black
vengeance
,
from
the
hollow
hell
!
Yield
up
,
O
love
,
thy
crown
and
hearted
throne
To
tyrannous
hate
!
Swell
,
bosom
,
with
thy
fraught
,
For
’tis
of
aspics’
tongues
!
O , blood , blood , blood !
Never
,
Iago
.
Like
to
the
Pontic
Sea
,
Whose
icy
current
and
compulsive
course
Ne’er
feels
retiring
ebb
,
but
keeps
due
on
To
the
Propontic
and
the
Hellespont
,
Even
so
my
bloody
thoughts
,
with
violent
pace
Shall
ne’er
look
back
,
ne’er
ebb
to
humble
love
,
Till
that
a
capable
and
wide
revenge
Swallow
them
up
.
Now
by
yond
marble
heaven
,
In
the
due
reverence
of
a
sacred
vow
,
I
here
engage
my
words
.
Do
not
rise
yet
.
Witness
,
you
ever-burning
lights
above
,
You
elements
that
clip
us
round
about
,
Witness
that
here
Iago
doth
give
up
The
execution
of
his
wit
,
hands
,
heart
To
wronged
Othello’s
service
!
Let
him
command
,
And
to
obey
shall
be
in
me
remorse
,
What
bloody
business
ever
.
Look
where
he
comes
.
Most
veritable
.
Therefore
,
look
to
’t
well
.
’Tis
not
a
year
or
two
shows
us
a
man
.
They
are
all
but
stomachs
,
and
we
all
but
food
;
They
eat
us
hungerly
,
and
when
they
are
full
They
belch
us
.
Look
you
—
Cassio
and
my
husband
.
I
prithee
do
so
.
Something
,
sure
,
of
state
,
Either
from
Venice
,
or
some
unhatched
practice
Made
demonstrable
here
in
Cyprus
to
him
,
Hath
puddled
his
clear
spirit
;
and
in
such
cases
Men’s
natures
wrangle
with
inferior
things
,
Though
great
ones
are
their
object
.
’Tis
even
so
.
For
let
our
finger
ache
,
and
it
endues
Our
other
healthful
members
even
to
a
sense
Of
pain
.
Nay
,
we
must
think
men
are
not
gods
,
Nor
of
them
look
for
such
observancy
As
fits
the
bridal
.
Beshrew
me
much
,
Emilia
,
I
was
—
unhandsome
warrior
as
I
am
!
—
Arraigning
his
unkindness
with
my
soul
.
But
now
I
find
I
had
suborned
the
witness
,
And
he’s
indicted
falsely
.
No
,
forbear
.
The
lethargy
must
have
his
quiet
course
.
If
not
,
he
foams
at
mouth
,
and
by
and
by
Breaks
out
to
savage
madness
.
Look
,
he
stirs
.
Do
you
withdraw
yourself
a
little
while
.
He
will
recover
straight
.
When
he
is
gone
,
I
would
on
great
occasion
speak
with
you
.
How
is
it
,
general
?
Have
you
not
hurt
your
head
?
Dost
thou
hear
,
Iago
,
I
will
be
found
most
cunning
in
my
patience
,
But
(
dost
thou
hear
?
)
most
bloody
.
Look how he laughs already !
Before me , look where she comes .
Is
it
his
use
?
Or
did
the
letters
work
upon
his
blood
And
new-create
this
fault
?
Let
me
see
your
eyes
.
Look
in
my
face
.
Had
it
pleased
heaven
To
try
me
with
affliction
,
had
they
rained
All
kind
of
sores
and
shames
on
my
bare
head
,
Steeped
me
in
poverty
to
the
very
lips
,
Given
to
captivity
me
and
my
utmost
hopes
,
I
should
have
found
in
some
place
of
my
soul
A
drop
of
patience
.
But
alas
,
to
make
me
A
fixèd
figure
for
the
time
of
scorn
To
point
his
slow
unmoving
finger
at
—
Yet
could
I
bear
that
too
,
well
,
very
well
.
But
there
where
I
have
garnered
up
my
heart
,
Where
either
I
must
live
or
bear
no
life
,
The
fountain
from
the
which
my
current
runs
Or
else
dries
up
—
to
be
discarded
thence
,
Or
keep
it
as
a
cistern
for
foul
toads
To
knot
and
gender
in
—
turn
thy
complexion
there
,
Patience
,
thou
young
and
rose-lipped
cherubin
,
Ay
,
there
look
grim
as
hell
.
Get
you
to
bed
on
th’
instant
.
I
will
be
returned
forthwith
.
Dismiss
your
attendant
there
.
Look
’t
be
done
.
How
goes
it
now
?
He
looks
gentler
than
he
did
.
’Tis
he
!
O
brave
Iago
,
honest
and
just
,
That
hast
such
noble
sense
of
thy
friend’s
wrong
!
Thou
teachest
me
.
—
Minion
,
your
dear
lies
dead
,
And
your
unblest
fate
hies
.
Strumpet
,
I
come
.
Forth
of
my
heart
those
charms
,
thine
eyes
,
are
blotted
.
Thy
bed
,
lust-stained
,
shall
with
lust’s
blood
be
spotted
.
Kill
men
i’
th’
dark
?
—
Where
be
these
bloody
thieves
?
How
silent
is
this
town
!
Ho
,
murder
,
murder
!
—
What
may
you
be
?
Are
you
of
good
or
evil
?
Signior
Gratiano
?
I
cry
your
gentle
pardon
.
These
bloody
accidents
must
excuse
my
manners
That
so
neglected
you
.
What
,
look
you
pale
?
—
O
,
bear
him
out
o’
th’
air
.
Stay
you
,
good
gentlemen
.
—
Look
you
pale
,
mistress
?
—
Do
you
perceive
the
gastness
of
her
eye
?
—
Nay
,
if
you
stare
,
we
shall
hear
more
anon
.
—
Behold
her
well
.
I
pray
you
,
look
upon
her
.
Do
you
see
,
gentlemen
?
Nay
,
guiltiness
will
speak
Though
tongues
were
out
of
use
.
It
is
the
cause
,
it
is
the
cause
,
my
soul
.
Let
me
not
name
it
to
you
,
you
chaste
stars
.
It
is
the
cause
.
Yet
I’ll
not
shed
her
blood
,
Nor
scar
that
whiter
skin
of
hers
than
snow
,
And
smooth
as
monumental
alabaster
.
Yet
she
must
die
,
else
she’ll
betray
more
men
.
Put
out
the
light
,
and
then
put
out
the
light
.
If
I
quench
thee
,
thou
flaming
minister
,
I
can
again
thy
former
light
restore
Should
I
repent
me
.
But
once
put
out
thy
light
,
Thou
cunning’st
pattern
of
excelling
nature
,
I
know
not
where
is
that
Promethean
heat
That
can
thy
light
relume
.
When
I
have
plucked
the
rose
,
I
cannot
give
it
vital
growth
again
.
It
needs
must
wither
.
I’ll
smell
it
on
the
tree
.
O
balmy
breath
,
that
dost
almost
persuade
Justice
to
break
her
sword
!
One
more
,
one
more
.
Be
thus
when
thou
art
dead
,
and
I
will
kill
thee
And
love
thee
after
.
One
more
,
and
this
the
last
.
So
sweet
was
ne’er
so
fatal
.
I
must
weep
,
But
they
are
cruel
tears
.
This
sorrow’s
heavenly
:
It
strikes
where
it
doth
love
.
She
wakes
.
That
death’s
unnatural
that
kills
for
loving
.
Alas
,
why
gnaw
you
so
your
nether
lip
?
Some
bloody
passion
shakes
your
very
frame
.
These
are
portents
,
but
yet
I
hope
,
I
hope
They
do
not
point
on
me
.
Look
in
upon
me
,
then
,
and
speak
with
me
,
Or
naked
as
I
am
I
will
assault
thee
.
Behold
,
I
have
a
weapon
.
A
better
never
did
itself
sustain
Upon
a
soldier’s
thigh
.
I
have
seen
the
day
That
with
this
little
arm
and
this
good
sword
,
I
have
made
my
way
through
more
impediments
Than
twenty
times
your
stop
.
But
—
O
vain
boast
!
—
Who
can
control
his
fate
?
’Tis
not
so
now
.
Be
not
afraid
,
though
you
do
see
me
weaponed
.
Here
is
my
journey’s
end
,
here
is
my
butt
And
very
sea-mark
of
my
utmost
sail
.
Do
you
go
back
dismayed
?
’Tis
a
lost
fear
.
Man
but
a
rush
against
Othello’s
breast
,
And
he
retires
.
Where
should
Othello
go
?
Now
,
how
dost
thou
look
now
?
O
ill-starred
wench
,
Pale
as
thy
smock
,
when
we
shall
meet
at
compt
,
This
look
of
thine
will
hurl
my
soul
from
heaven
,
And
fiends
will
snatch
at
it
.
Cold
,
cold
,
my
girl
?
Even
like
thy
chastity
.
—
O
cursèd
,
cursèd
slave
!
—
Whip
me
,
you
devils
,
From
the
possession
of
this
heavenly
sight
!
Blow
me
about
in
winds
,
roast
me
in
sulfur
,
Wash
me
in
steep-down
gulfs
of
liquid
fire
!
O
Desdemon
!
Dead
,
Desdemon
!
Dead
!
O
,
O
!
I
look
down
towards
his
feet
;
but
that’s
a
fable
.
—
If
that
thou
be’st
a
devil
,
I
cannot
kill
thee
.
O bloody period !
O
Spartan
dog
,
More
fell
than
anguish
,
hunger
,
or
the
sea
,
Look
on
the
tragic
loading
of
this
bed
.
This
is
thy
work
.
—
The
object
poisons
sight
.
Let
it
be
hid
.
—
Gratiano
,
keep
the
house
,
And
seize
upon
the
fortunes
of
the
Moor
,
For
they
succeed
on
you
.
To
you
,
lord
governor
,
Remains
the
censure
of
this
hellish
villain
.
The
time
,
the
place
,
the
torture
,
O
,
enforce
it
.
Myself
will
straight
aboard
,
and
to
the
state
This
heavy
act
with
heavy
heart
relate
.
To
sing
a
song
that
old
was
sung
,
From
ashes
ancient
Gower
is
come
,
Assuming
man’s
infirmities
To
glad
your
ear
and
please
your
eyes
.
It
hath
been
sung
at
festivals
,
On
ember
eves
and
holy
days
,
And
lords
and
ladies
in
their
lives
Have
read
it
for
restoratives
.
The
purchase
is
to
make
men
glorious
,
Et
bonum
quo
antiquius
,
eo
melius
.
If
you
,
born
in
these
latter
times
When
wit’s
more
ripe
,
accept
my
rhymes
,
And
that
to
hear
an
old
man
sing
May
to
your
wishes
pleasure
bring
,
I
life
would
wish
,
and
that
I
might
Waste
it
for
you
like
taper
light
.
This
Antioch
,
then
:
Antiochus
the
Great
Built
up
this
city
for
his
chiefest
seat
,
The
fairest
in
all
Syria
.
I
tell
you
what
mine
authors
say
.
This
king
unto
him
took
a
peer
,
Who
died
and
left
a
female
heir
So
buxom
,
blithe
,
and
full
of
face
As
heaven
had
lent
her
all
his
grace
;
With
whom
the
father
liking
took
And
her
to
incest
did
provoke
.
Bad
child
,
worse
father
!
To
entice
his
own
To
evil
should
be
done
by
none
.
But
custom
what
they
did
begin
Was
with
long
use
accounted
no
sin
.
The
beauty
of
this
sinful
dame
Made
many
princes
thither
frame
To
seek
her
as
a
bedfellow
,
In
marriage
pleasures
playfellow
;
Which
to
prevent
he
made
a
law
To
keep
her
still
,
and
men
in
awe
,
That
whoso
asked
her
for
his
wife
,
His
riddle
told
not
,
lost
his
life
.
So
for
her
many
a
wight
did
die
,
As
yon
grim
looks
do
testify
.
What
now
ensues
,
to
the
judgment
of
your
eye
I
give
my
cause
,
who
best
can
justify
.
Let
none
disturb
us
.
Why
should
this
change
of
thoughts
,
The
sad
companion
dull-eyed
Melancholy
,
Be
my
so
used
a
guest
as
not
an
hour
In
the
day’s
glorious
walk
or
peaceful
night
,
The
tomb
where
grief
should
sleep
,
can
breed
me
quiet
?
Here
pleasures
court
mine
eyes
,
and
mine
eyes
shun
them
;
And
danger
,
which
I
feared
,
is
at
Antioch
,
Whose
arm
seems
far
too
short
to
hit
me
here
.
Yet
neither
pleasure’s
art
can
joy
my
spirits
,
Nor
yet
the
other’s
distance
comfort
me
.
Then
it
is
thus
:
the
passions
of
the
mind
That
have
their
first
conception
by
misdread
Have
after-nourishment
and
life
by
care
;
And
what
was
first
but
fear
what
might
be
done
Grows
elder
now
,
and
cares
it
be
not
done
.
And
so
with
me
.
The
great
Antiochus
,
’Gainst
whom
I
am
too
little
to
contend
,
Since
he’s
so
great
can
make
his
will
his
act
,
Will
think
me
speaking
though
I
swear
to
silence
;
Nor
boots
it
me
to
say
I
honor
him
If
he
suspect
I
may
dishonor
him
.
And
what
may
make
him
blush
in
being
known
,
He’ll
stop
the
course
by
which
it
might
be
known
.
With
hostile
forces
he’ll
o’er-spread
the
land
,
And
with
th’
ostent
of
war
will
look
so
huge
Amazement
shall
drive
courage
from
the
state
,
Our
men
be
vanquished
ere
they
do
resist
,
And
subjects
punished
that
ne’er
thought
offense
;
Which
care
of
them
,
not
pity
of
myself
,
Who
am
no
more
but
as
the
tops
of
trees
Which
fence
the
roots
they
grow
by
and
defend
them
,
Makes
both
my
body
pine
and
soul
to
languish
And
punish
that
before
that
he
would
punish
.
All
leave
us
else
;
but
let
your
cares
o’erlook
What
shipping
and
what
lading’s
in
our
haven
,
And
then
return
to
us
.
Helicanus
,
Thou
hast
moved
us
.
What
seest
thou
in
our
looks
?
How
dares
the
plants
look
up
to
heaven
,
From
whence
they
have
their
nourishment
?
Thou
speak’st
like
a
physician
,
Helicanus
,
That
ministers
a
potion
unto
me
That
thou
wouldst
tremble
to
receive
thyself
.
Attend
me
,
then
:
I
went
to
Antioch
,
Where
,
as
thou
know’st
,
against
the
face
of
death
I
sought
the
purchase
of
a
glorious
beauty
From
whence
an
issue
I
might
propagate
,
Are
arms
to
princes
and
bring
joys
to
subjects
.
Her
face
was
to
mine
eye
beyond
all
wonder
,
The
rest
—
hark
in
thine
ear
—
as
black
as
incest
,
Which
by
my
knowledge
found
,
the
sinful
father
Seemed
not
to
strike
,
but
smooth
.
But
thou
know’st
this
:
’Tis
time
to
fear
when
tyrants
seems
to
kiss
;
Which
fear
so
grew
in
me
I
hither
fled
Under
the
covering
of
a
careful
night
,
Who
seemed
my
good
protector
;
and
,
being
here
,
Bethought
me
what
was
past
,
what
might
succeed
.
I
knew
him
tyrannous
,
and
tyrants’
fears
Decrease
not
but
grow
faster
than
the
years
;
And
should
he
doubt
,
as
no
doubt
he
doth
,
That
I
should
open
to
the
list’ning
air
How
many
worthy
princes’
bloods
were
shed
To
keep
his
bed
of
blackness
unlaid
ope
,
To
lop
that
doubt
he’ll
fill
this
land
with
arms
,
And
make
pretense
of
wrong
that
I
have
done
him
;
When
all
,
for
mine
—
if
I
may
call
’t
—
offense
,
Must
feel
war’s
blow
,
who
spares
not
innocence
;
Which
love
to
all
—
of
which
thyself
art
one
,
Who
now
reproved’st
me
for
’t
—
Drew
sleep
out
of
mine
eyes
,
blood
from
my
cheeks
,
Musings
into
my
mind
,
with
thousand
doubts
How
I
might
stop
this
tempest
ere
it
came
;
And
finding
little
comfort
to
relieve
them
,
I
thought
it
princely
charity
to
grieve
for
them
.
We’ll
mingle
our
bloods
together
in
the
earth
,
From
whence
we
had
our
being
and
our
birth
.
Tyre
,
I
now
look
from
thee
,
then
,
and
to
Tarsus
Intend
my
travel
,
where
I’ll
hear
from
thee
,
And
by
whose
letters
I’ll
dispose
myself
.
The
care
I
had
and
have
of
subjects’
good
On
thee
I
lay
,
whose
wisdom’s
strength
can
bear
it
.
I’ll
take
thy
word
for
faith
,
not
ask
thine
oath
.
Who
shuns
not
to
break
one
will
crack
both
.
But
in
our
orbs
we’ll
live
so
round
and
safe
That
time
of
both
this
truth
shall
ne’er
convince
.
Thou
showed’st
a
subject’s
shine
,
I
a
true
prince
.
Lord
Governor
,
for
so
we
hear
you
are
,
Let
not
our
ships
and
number
of
our
men
Be
like
a
beacon
fired
t’
amaze
your
eyes
.
We
have
heard
your
miseries
as
far
as
Tyre
And
seen
the
desolation
of
your
streets
;
Nor
come
we
to
add
sorrow
to
your
tears
,
But
to
relieve
them
of
their
heavy
load
;
And
these
our
ships
,
you
happily
may
think
Are
like
the
Trojan
horse
was
stuffed
within
With
bloody
veins
expecting
overthrow
,
Are
stored
with
corn
to
make
your
needy
bread
And
give
them
life
whom
hunger
starved
half
dead
.
Arise
,
I
pray
you
,
rise
.
We
do
not
look
for
reverence
,
but
for
love
,
And
harborage
for
ourself
,
our
ships
,
and
men
.
Look
how
thou
stirr’st
now
!
Come
away
,
or
I’ll
fetch
thee
with
a
wanion
.
Nay
,
master
,
said
not
I
as
much
when
I
saw
the
porpoise
how
he
bounced
and
tumbled
?
They
say
they’re
half
fish
,
half
flesh
.
A
plague
on
them
!
They
ne’er
come
but
I
look
to
be
washed
.
Master
,
I
marvel
how
the
fishes
live
in
the
sea
.
Honest
good
fellow
,
what’s
that
?
If
it
be
a
day
fits
you
,
search
out
of
the
calendar
,
and
nobody
look
after
it
!
Wishing
it
so
much
blood
unto
your
life
.
A
gentleman
of
Tyre
,
my
name
Pericles
.
My
education
been
in
arts
and
arms
,
Who
,
looking
for
adventures
in
the
world
,
Was
by
the
rough
seas
reft
of
ships
and
men
,
And
after
shipwrack
driven
upon
this
shore
.
Now
,
by
the
gods
,
I
pity
his
misfortune
,
And
will
awake
him
from
his
melancholy
.
—
Come
,
gentlemen
,
we
sit
too
long
on
trifles
And
waste
the
time
which
looks
for
other
revels
.
Even
in
your
armors
,
as
you
are
addressed
,
Will
well
become
a
soldiers’
dance
.
I
will
not
have
excuse
with
saying
this
:
Loud
music
is
too
harsh
for
ladies’
heads
,
Since
they
love
men
in
arms
as
well
as
beds
.
So
,
this
was
well
asked
,
’twas
so
well
performed
.
Come
,
sir
.
Here’s
a
lady
that
wants
breathing
too
,
And
I
have
heard
you
knights
of
Tyre
Are
excellent
in
making
ladies
trip
,
And
that
their
measures
are
as
excellent
.
Sir
,
my
daughter
thinks
very
well
of
you
,
Ay
,
so
well
that
you
must
be
her
master
,
And
she
will
be
your
scholar
.
Therefore
,
look
to
it
.
Yea
,
mistress
,
are
you
so
peremptory
?
I
am
glad
on
’t
with
all
my
heart
.
—
I’ll
tame
you
!
I’ll
bring
you
in
subjection
.
Will
you
,
not
having
my
consent
,
Bestow
your
love
and
your
affections
Upon
a
stranger
?
Who
,
for
aught
I
know
,
May
be
—
nor
can
I
think
the
contrary
—
As
great
in
blood
as
I
myself
.
—
Therefore
,
hear
you
,
mistress
:
either
frame
Your
will
to
mine
—
and
you
,
sir
,
hear
you
:
Either
be
ruled
by
me
—
or
I’ll
make
you
Man
and
wife
.
Nay
,
come
,
your
hands
and
lips
must
seal
it
too
.
And
being
joined
,
I’ll
thus
your
hopes
destroy
.
And
for
further
grief
—
God
give
you
joy
!
What
,
are
you
both
pleased
?
Even
as
my
life
my
blood
that
fosters
it
.
Now
sleep
yslackèd
hath
the
rout
;
No
din
but
snores
about
the
house
,
Made
louder
by
the
o’erfed
breast
Of
this
most
pompous
marriage
feast
.
The
cat
with
eyne
of
burning
coal
Now
couches
from
the
mouse’s
hole
,
And
crickets
sing
at
the
oven’s
mouth
Are
the
blither
for
their
drouth
.
Hymen
hath
brought
the
bride
to
bed
,
Where
,
by
the
loss
of
maidenhead
,
A
babe
is
molded
.
Be
attent
,
And
time
that
is
so
briefly
spent
With
your
fine
fancies
quaintly
eche
.
What’s
dumb
in
show
I’ll
plain
with
speech
.
By
many
a
dern
and
painful
perch
Of
Pericles
the
careful
search
,
By
the
four
opposing
coigns
Which
the
world
together
joins
,
Is
made
with
all
due
diligence
That
horse
and
sail
and
high
expense
Can
stead
the
quest
.
At
last
from
Tyre
,
Fame
answering
the
most
strange
enquire
,
To
th’
court
of
King
Simonides
Are
letters
brought
,
the
tenor
these
:
Antiochus
and
his
daughter
dead
,
The
men
of
Tyrus
on
the
head
Of
Helicanus
would
set
on
The
crown
of
Tyre
,
but
he
will
none
.
The
mutiny
he
there
hastes
t’
oppress
,
Says
to
’em
,
if
King
Pericles
Come
not
home
in
twice
six
moons
,
He
,
obedient
to
their
dooms
,
Will
take
the
crown
.
The
sum
of
this
,
Brought
hither
to
Pentapolis
,
Y-ravishèd
the
regions
round
,
And
everyone
with
claps
can
sound
,
Our
heir
apparent
is
a
king
!
Who
dreamt
,
who
thought
of
such
a
thing
?
Brief
,
he
must
hence
depart
to
Tyre
.
His
queen
,
with
child
,
makes
her
desire
—
Which
who
shall
cross
?
—
along
to
go
.
Omit
we
all
their
dole
and
woe
.
Lychorida
,
her
nurse
,
she
takes
,
And
so
to
sea
.
Their
vessel
shakes
On
Neptune’s
billow
.
Half
the
flood
Hath
their
keel
cut
.
But
Fortune
,
moved
,
Varies
again
.
The
grizzled
North
Disgorges
such
a
tempest
forth
That
,
as
a
duck
for
life
that
dives
,
So
up
and
down
the
poor
ship
drives
.
The
lady
shrieks
and
,
well-anear
,
Does
fall
in
travail
with
her
fear
.
And
what
ensues
in
this
fell
storm
Shall
for
itself
itself
perform
.
I
nill
relate
;
action
may
Conveniently
the
rest
convey
,
Which
might
not
what
by
me
is
told
.
In
your
imagination
hold
This
stage
the
ship
upon
whose
deck
The
sea-tossed
Pericles
appears
to
speak
.
Set ’t down . Let’s look upon ’t .
Nay
,
certainly
tonight
,
For
look
how
fresh
she
looks
.
They
were
too
rough
That
threw
her
in
the
sea
.
—
Make
a
fire
within
;
Fetch
hither
all
my
boxes
in
my
closet
.
Death
may
usurp
on
nature
many
hours
,
And
yet
the
fire
of
life
kindle
again
The
o’erpressed
spirits
.
I
heard
of
an
Egyptian
That
had
nine
hours
lain
dead
,
Who
was
by
good
appliance
recoverèd
.
Well
said
,
well
said
!
The
fire
and
cloths
.
The
rough
and
woeful
music
that
we
have
,
Cause
it
to
sound
,
beseech
you
.
The
viol
once
more
!
How
thou
stirr’st
,
thou
block
!
The
music
there
.
I
pray
you
,
give
her
air
.
Gentlemen
,
This
queen
will
live
.
Nature
awakes
a
warm
breath
Out
of
her
.
She
hath
not
been
entranced
Above
five
hours
.
See
how
she
gins
to
blow
Into
life’s
flower
again
.
Hush
,
my
gentle
neighbors
!
Lend
me
your
hands
.
To
the
next
chamber
bear
her
.
Get
linen
.
Now
this
matter
must
be
looked
to
,
For
her
relapse
is
mortal
.
Come
,
come
;
And
Aesculapius
guide
us
.
I
will
embrace
your
offer
.
—
Come
,
dearest
madam
.
—
O
,
no
tears
,
Lychorida
,
no
tears
!
Look
to
your
little
mistress
,
on
whose
grace
You
may
depend
hereafter
.
—
Come
,
my
lord
.
How
now
,
Marina
?
Why
do
you
keep
alone
?
How
chance
my
daughter
is
not
with
you
?
Do
not
consume
your
blood
with
sorrowing
.
Have
you
a
nurse
of
me
!
Lord
,
how
your
favor
’s
Changed
with
this
unprofitable
woe
.
Come
,
give
me
your
flowers
.
O’er
the
sea
marge
Walk
with
Leonine
.
The
air
is
quick
there
,
And
it
pierces
and
sharpens
the
stomach
.
—
Come
,
Leonine
,
Take
her
by
the
arm
.
Walk
with
her
.
I’ll
leave
you
,
my
sweet
lady
,
for
a
while
.
Pray
walk
softly
;
do
not
heat
your
blood
.
What
,
I
must
have
care
of
you
.
You
will
not
do
’t
for
all
the
world
,
I
hope
.
You
are
well-favored
,
and
your
looks
foreshow
You
have
a
gentle
heart
.
I
saw
you
lately
When
you
caught
hurt
in
parting
two
that
fought
.
Good
sooth
,
it
showed
well
in
you
.
Do
so
now
.
Your
lady
seeks
my
life
.
Come
you
between
,
And
save
poor
me
,
the
weaker
.
O
Dionyza
,
such
a
piece
of
slaughter
The
sun
and
moon
ne’er
looked
upon
!
Were
I
chief
lord
of
all
this
spacious
world
,
I’d
give
it
to
undo
the
deed
.
A
lady
Much
less
in
blood
than
virtue
,
yet
a
princess
To
equal
any
single
crown
o’
th’
Earth
earth
I’
the
justice
of
compare
.
O
villain
Leonine
,
Whom
thou
hast
poisoned
too
!
If
thou
hadst
drunk
to
him
,
’t
had
been
a
kindness
Becoming
well
thy
face
.
What
canst
thou
say
When
noble
Pericles
shall
demand
his
child
?
Be
it
so
,
then
.
Yet
none
does
know
but
you
how
she
came
dead
,
Nor
none
can
know
,
Leonine
being
gone
.
She
did
distain
my
child
and
stood
between
Her
and
her
fortunes
.
None
would
look
on
her
,
But
cast
their
gazes
on
Marina’s
face
,
Whilst
ours
was
blurted
at
and
held
a
malkin
Not
worth
the
time
of
day
.
It
pierced
me
through
,
And
though
you
call
my
course
unnatural
,
You
not
your
child
well
loving
,
yet
I
find
It
greets
me
as
an
enterprise
of
kindness
Performed
to
your
sole
daughter
.
For
flesh
and
blood
,
sir
,
white
and
red
,
you
shall
see
a
rose
;
and
she
were
a
rose
indeed
,
if
she
had
but
—
Why
,
your
herbwoman
,
she
that
sets
seeds
and
roots
of
shame
and
iniquity
.
O
,
you
have
heard
something
of
my
power
,
and
so
stand
aloof
for
more
serious
wooing
.
But
I
protest
to
thee
,
pretty
one
,
my
authority
shall
not
see
thee
,
or
else
look
friendly
upon
thee
.
Come
,
bring
me
to
some
private
place
.
Come
,
come
.
No , nor looked on us .
Prithee
,
speak
.
Falseness
cannot
come
from
thee
,
for
thou
lookest
Modest
as
Justice
,
and
thou
seemest
a
palace
For
the
crownèd
Truth
to
dwell
in
.
I
will
believe
thee
And
make
my
senses
credit
thy
relation
To
points
that
seem
impossible
,
for
thou
lookest
Like
one
I
loved
indeed
.
What
were
thy
friends
?
Didst
thou
not
say
,
when
I
did
push
thee
back
—
Which
was
when
I
perceived
thee
—
that
thou
cam’st
From
good
descending
?
Tell
thy
story
.
If
thine
considered
prove
the
thousand
part
Of
my
endurance
,
thou
art
a
man
,
and
I
Have
suffered
like
a
girl
.
Yet
thou
dost
look
Like
Patience
gazing
on
kings’
graves
and
smiling
Extremity
out
of
act
.
What
were
thy
friends
?
How
lost
thou
them
?
Thy
name
,
my
most
kind
virgin
,
Recount
,
I
do
beseech
thee
.
Come
,
sit
by
me
.
But
are
you
flesh
and
blood
?
Have
you
a
working
pulse
,
and
are
no
fairy
Motion
?
Well
,
speak
on
.
Where
were
you
born
?
And
wherefore
called
Marina
?
Look
to
the
lady
.
O
,
she’s
but
overjoyed
.
Early
one
blustering
morn
this
lady
was
Thrown
upon
this
shore
.
I
oped
the
coffin
,
Found
there
rich
jewels
,
recovered
her
,
and
placed
her
Here
in
Diana’s
temple
.
Great
sir
,
they
shall
be
brought
you
to
my
house
,
Whither
I
invite
you
.
Look
,
Thaisa
Is
recoverèd
.
O
,
let
me
look
!
If
he
be
none
of
mine
,
my
sanctity
Will
to
my
sense
bend
no
licentious
ear
,
But
curb
it
,
spite
of
seeing
.
—
O
,
my
lord
,
Are
you
not
Pericles
?
Like
him
you
spake
,
Like
him
you
are
.
Did
you
not
name
a
tempest
,
A
birth
and
death
?
Look
who
kneels
here
,
flesh
of
thy
flesh
,
Thaisa
,
Thy
burden
at
the
sea
,
and
called
Marina
For
she
was
yielded
there
.
Pure
Dian
,
I
bless
thee
for
thy
vision
,
and
Will
offer
night
oblations
to
thee
.
—
Thaisa
,
This
prince
,
the
fair
betrothèd
of
your
daughter
,
Shall
marry
her
at
Pentapolis
.
—
And
now
this
ornament
Makes
me
look
dismal
will
I
clip
to
form
,
And
what
this
fourteen
years
no
razor
touched
,
To
grace
thy
marriage
day
I’ll
beautify
.
Let
not
my
cold
words
here
accuse
my
zeal
.
’Tis
not
the
trial
of
a
woman’s
war
,
The
bitter
clamor
of
two
eager
tongues
,
Can
arbitrate
this
cause
betwixt
us
twain
.
The
blood
is
hot
that
must
be
cooled
for
this
.
Yet
can
I
not
of
such
tame
patience
boast
As
to
be
hushed
and
naught
at
all
to
say
.
First
,
the
fair
reverence
of
your
Highness
curbs
me
From
giving
reins
and
spurs
to
my
free
speech
,
Which
else
would
post
until
it
had
returned
These
terms
of
treason
doubled
down
his
throat
.
Setting
aside
his
high
blood’s
royalty
,
And
let
him
be
no
kinsman
to
my
liege
,
I
do
defy
him
,
and
I
spit
at
him
,
Call
him
a
slanderous
coward
and
a
villain
,
Which
to
maintain
I
would
allow
him
odds
And
meet
him
,
were
I
tied
to
run
afoot
Even
to
the
frozen
ridges
of
the
Alps
Or
any
other
ground
inhabitable
Wherever
Englishman
durst
set
his
foot
.
Meantime
,
let
this
defend
my
loyalty
:
By
all
my
hopes
,
most
falsely
doth
he
lie
.
Pale
trembling
coward
,
there
I
throw
my
gage
,
Disclaiming
here
the
kindred
of
the
King
,
And
lay
aside
my
high
blood’s
royalty
,
Which
fear
,
not
reverence
,
makes
thee
to
except
.
If
guilty
dread
have
left
thee
so
much
strength
As
to
take
up
mine
honor’s
pawn
,
then
stoop
.
By
that
and
all
the
rites
of
knighthood
else
Will
I
make
good
against
thee
,
arm
to
arm
,
What
I
have
spoke
or
thou
canst
worse
devise
.
Look
what
I
speak
,
my
life
shall
prove
it
true
:
That
Mowbray
hath
received
eight
thousand
nobles
In
name
of
lendings
for
your
Highness’
soldiers
,
The
which
he
hath
detained
for
lewd
employments
,
Like
a
false
traitor
and
injurious
villain
.
Besides
I
say
,
and
will
in
battle
prove
,
Or
here
or
elsewhere
to
the
furthest
verge
That
ever
was
surveyed
by
English
eye
,
That
all
the
treasons
for
these
eighteen
years
Complotted
and
contrivèd
in
this
land
Fetch
from
false
Mowbray
their
first
head
and
spring
.
Further
I
say
,
and
further
will
maintain
Upon
his
bad
life
to
make
all
this
good
,
That
he
did
plot
the
Duke
of
Gloucester’s
death
,
Suggest
his
soon-believing
adversaries
,
And
consequently
,
like
a
traitor
coward
,
Sluiced
out
his
innocent
soul
through
streams
of
blood
,
Which
blood
,
like
sacrificing
Abel’s
,
cries
Even
from
the
tongueless
caverns
of
the
earth
To
me
for
justice
and
rough
chastisement
.
And
,
by
the
glorious
worth
of
my
descent
,
This
arm
shall
do
it
,
or
this
life
be
spent
.
O
,
let
my
sovereign
turn
away
his
face
And
bid
his
ears
a
little
while
be
deaf
,
Till
I
have
told
this
slander
of
his
blood
How
God
and
good
men
hate
so
foul
a
liar
.
Mowbray
,
impartial
are
our
eyes
and
ears
.
Were
he
my
brother
,
nay
,
my
kingdom’s
heir
,
As
he
is
but
my
father’s
brother’s
son
,
Now
by
my
scepter’s
awe
I
make
a
vow
:
Such
neighbor
nearness
to
our
sacred
blood
Should
nothing
privilege
him
nor
partialize
The
unstooping
firmness
of
my
upright
soul
.
He
is
our
subject
,
Mowbray
;
so
art
thou
.
Free
speech
and
fearless
I
to
thee
allow
.
Then
,
Bolingbroke
,
as
low
as
to
thy
heart
,
Through
the
false
passage
of
thy
throat
,
thou
liest
.
Three
parts
of
that
receipt
I
had
for
Calais
Disbursed
I
duly
to
his
Highness’
soldiers
;
The
other
part
reserved
I
by
consent
,
For
that
my
sovereign
liege
was
in
my
debt
Upon
remainder
of
a
dear
account
Since
last
I
went
to
France
to
fetch
his
queen
.
Now
swallow
down
that
lie
.
For
Gloucester’s
death
,
I
slew
him
not
,
but
to
my
own
disgrace
Neglected
my
sworn
duty
in
that
case
.
—
For
you
,
my
noble
Lord
of
Lancaster
,
The
honorable
father
to
my
foe
,
Once
did
I
lay
an
ambush
for
your
life
,
A
trespass
that
doth
vex
my
grievèd
soul
.
But
ere
I
last
received
the
sacrament
,
I
did
confess
it
,
and
exactly
begged
Your
Grace’s
pardon
,
and
I
hope
I
had
it
.
—
This
is
my
fault
.
As
for
the
rest
appealed
,
It
issues
from
the
rancor
of
a
villain
,
A
recreant
,
and
most
degenerate
traitor
,
Which
in
myself
I
boldly
will
defend
,
And
interchangeably
hurl
down
my
gage
Upon
this
overweening
traitor’s
foot
,
To
prove
myself
a
loyal
gentleman
,
Even
in
the
best
blood
chambered
in
his
bosom
;
In
haste
whereof
most
heartily
I
pray
Your
Highness
to
assign
our
trial
day
.
Wrath-kindled
gentlemen
,
be
ruled
by
me
.
Let’s
purge
this
choler
without
letting
blood
.
This
we
prescribe
,
though
no
physician
.
Deep
malice
makes
too
deep
incision
.
Forget
,
forgive
;
conclude
and
be
agreed
.
Our
doctors
say
this
is
no
month
to
bleed
.
—
Good
uncle
,
let
this
end
where
it
begun
;
We’ll
calm
the
Duke
of
Norfolk
,
you
your
son
.
Myself
I
throw
,
dread
sovereign
,
at
thy
foot
.
My
life
thou
shalt
command
,
but
not
my
shame
.
The
one
my
duty
owes
,
but
my
fair
name
,
Despite
of
death
that
lives
upon
my
grave
,
To
dark
dishonor’s
use
thou
shalt
not
have
.
I
am
disgraced
,
impeached
,
and
baffled
here
,
Pierced
to
the
soul
with
slander’s
venomed
spear
,
The
which
no
balm
can
cure
but
his
heart-blood
Which
breathed
this
poison
.
Alas
,
the
part
I
had
in
Woodstock’s
blood
Doth
more
solicit
me
than
your
exclaims
To
stir
against
the
butchers
of
his
life
.
But
since
correction
lieth
in
those
hands
Which
made
the
fault
that
we
cannot
correct
,
Put
we
our
quarrel
to
the
will
of
heaven
,
Who
,
when
they
see
the
hours
ripe
on
Earth
earth
,
Will
rain
hot
vengeance
on
offenders’
heads
.
Finds
brotherhood
in
thee
no
sharper
spur
?
Hath
love
in
thy
old
blood
no
living
fire
?
Edward’s
seven
sons
,
whereof
thyself
art
one
,
Were
as
seven
vials
of
his
sacred
blood
,
Or
seven
fair
branches
springing
from
one
root
.
Some
of
those
seven
are
dried
by
nature’s
course
,
Some
of
those
branches
by
the
Destinies
cut
.
But
Thomas
,
my
dear
lord
,
my
life
,
my
Gloucester
,
One
vial
full
of
Edward’s
sacred
blood
,
One
flourishing
branch
of
his
most
royal
root
,
Is
cracked
,
and
all
the
precious
liquor
spilt
,
Is
hacked
down
,
and
his
summer
leaves
all
faded
,
By
envy’s
hand
and
murder’s
bloody
ax
.
Ah
,
Gaunt
,
his
blood
was
thine
!
That
bed
,
that
womb
,
That
metal
,
that
self
mold
that
fashioned
thee
Made
him
a
man
;
and
though
thou
livest
and
breathest
,
Yet
art
thou
slain
in
him
.
Thou
dost
consent
In
some
large
measure
to
thy
father’s
death
In
that
thou
seest
thy
wretched
brother
die
,
Who
was
the
model
of
thy
father’s
life
.
Call
it
not
patience
,
Gaunt
.
It
is
despair
.
In
suff’ring
thus
thy
brother
to
be
slaughtered
,
Thou
showest
the
naked
pathway
to
thy
life
,
Teaching
stern
murder
how
to
butcher
thee
.
That
which
in
mean
men
we
entitle
patience
Is
pale
,
cold
cowardice
in
noble
breasts
.
What
shall
I
say
?
To
safeguard
thine
own
life
,
The
best
way
is
to
venge
my
Gloucester’s
death
.
We
will
descend
and
fold
him
in
our
arms
.
Cousin
of
Hereford
,
as
thy
cause
is
right
,
So
be
thy
fortune
in
this
royal
fight
.
Farewell
,
my
blood
—
which
,
if
today
thou
shed
,
Lament
we
may
,
but
not
revenge
thee
dead
.
O
,
let
no
noble
eye
profane
a
tear
For
me
if
I
be
gored
with
Mowbray’s
spear
.
As
confident
as
is
the
falcon’s
flight
Against
a
bird
do
I
with
Mowbray
fight
.
My
loving
lord
,
I
take
my
leave
of
you
.
—
Of
you
,
my
noble
cousin
,
Lord
Aumerle
;
Not
sick
,
although
I
have
to
do
with
death
,
But
lusty
,
young
,
and
cheerly
drawing
breath
.
—
Lo
,
as
at
English
feasts
,
so
I
regreet
The
daintiest
last
,
to
make
the
end
most
sweet
.
O
,
thou
the
earthly
author
of
my
blood
,
Whose
youthful
spirit
in
me
regenerate
Doth
with
a
twofold
vigor
lift
me
up
To
reach
at
victory
above
my
head
,
Add
proof
unto
mine
armor
with
thy
prayers
,
And
with
thy
blessings
steel
my
lance’s
point
That
it
may
enter
Mowbray’s
waxen
coat
And
furbish
new
the
name
of
John
o’
Gaunt
,
Even
in
the
lusty
havior
of
his
son
.
God
in
thy
good
cause
make
thee
prosperous
.
Be
swift
like
lightning
in
the
execution
,
And
let
thy
blows
,
doubly
redoubled
,
Fall
like
amazing
thunder
on
the
casque
Of
thy
adverse
pernicious
enemy
.
Rouse
up
thy
youthful
blood
,
be
valiant
,
and
live
.
Let
them
lay
by
their
helmets
and
their
spears
,
And
both
return
back
to
their
chairs
again
.
Withdraw
with
us
,
and
let
the
trumpets
sound
While
we
return
these
dukes
what
we
decree
.
Draw
near
,
And
list
what
with
our
council
we
have
done
.
For
that
our
kingdom’s
earth
should
not
be
soiled
With
that
dear
blood
which
it
hath
fosterèd
;
And
for
our
eyes
do
hate
the
dire
aspect
Of
civil
wounds
plowed
up
with
neighbor’s
sword
;
And
for
we
think
the
eagle-wingèd
pride
Of
sky-aspiring
and
ambitious
thoughts
,
With
rival-hating
envy
,
set
on
you
To
wake
our
peace
,
which
in
our
country’s
cradle
Draws
the
sweet
infant
breath
of
gentle
sleep
,
Which
,
so
roused
up
with
boist’rous
untuned
drums
,
With
harsh
resounding
trumpets’
dreadful
bray
,
And
grating
shock
of
wrathful
iron
arms
,
Might
from
our
quiet
confines
fright
fair
peace
And
make
us
wade
even
in
our
kindred’s
blood
:
Therefore
we
banish
you
our
territories
.
You
,
cousin
Hereford
,
upon
pain
of
life
,
Till
twice
five
summers
have
enriched
our
fields
,
Shall
not
regreet
our
fair
dominions
,
But
tread
the
stranger
paths
of
banishment
.
A
heavy
sentence
,
my
most
sovereign
liege
,
And
all
unlooked-for
from
your
Highness’
mouth
.
A
dearer
merit
,
not
so
deep
a
maim
As
to
be
cast
forth
in
the
common
air
,
Have
I
deservèd
at
your
Highness’
hands
.
The
language
I
have
learnt
these
forty
years
,
My
native
English
,
now
I
must
forgo
;
And
now
my
tongue’s
use
is
to
me
no
more
Than
an
unstringèd
viol
or
a
harp
,
Or
like
a
cunning
instrument
cased
up
,
Or
,
being
open
,
put
into
his
hands
That
knows
no
touch
to
tune
the
harmony
.
Within
my
mouth
you
have
enjailed
my
tongue
,
Doubly
portcullised
with
my
teeth
and
lips
,
And
dull
unfeeling
barren
ignorance
Is
made
my
jailor
to
attend
on
me
.
I
am
too
old
to
fawn
upon
a
nurse
,
Too
far
in
years
to
be
a
pupil
now
.
What
is
thy
sentence
then
but
speechless
death
,
Which
robs
my
tongue
from
breathing
native
breath
?
Return
again
,
and
take
an
oath
with
thee
.
Lay
on
our
royal
sword
your
banished
hands
.
Swear
by
the
duty
that
you
owe
to
God
—
Our
part
therein
we
banish
with
yourselves
—
To
keep
the
oath
that
we
administer
:
You
never
shall
,
so
help
you
truth
and
God
,
Embrace
each
other’s
love
in
banishment
,
Nor
never
look
upon
each
other’s
face
,
Nor
never
write
,
regreet
,
nor
reconcile
This
louring
tempest
of
your
homebred
hate
,
Nor
never
by
advisèd
purpose
meet
To
plot
,
contrive
,
or
complot
any
ill
’Gainst
us
,
our
state
,
our
subjects
,
or
our
land
.
Things
sweet
to
taste
prove
in
digestion
sour
.
You
urged
me
as
a
judge
,
but
I
had
rather
You
would
have
bid
me
argue
like
a
father
.
O
,
had
it
been
a
stranger
,
not
my
child
,
To
smooth
his
fault
I
should
have
been
more
mild
.
A
partial
slander
sought
I
to
avoid
,
And
in
the
sentence
my
own
life
destroyed
.
Alas
,
I
looked
when
some
of
you
should
say
I
was
too
strict
,
to
make
mine
own
away
.
But
you
gave
leave
to
my
unwilling
tongue
Against
my
will
to
do
myself
this
wrong
.
All
places
that
the
eye
of
heaven
visits
Are
to
a
wise
man
ports
and
happy
havens
.
Teach
thy
necessity
to
reason
thus
:
There
is
no
virtue
like
necessity
.
Think
not
the
King
did
banish
thee
,
But
thou
the
King
.
Woe
doth
the
heavier
sit
Where
it
perceives
it
is
but
faintly
borne
.
Go
,
say
I
sent
thee
forth
to
purchase
honor
,
And
not
the
King
exiled
thee
;
or
suppose
Devouring
pestilence
hangs
in
our
air
And
thou
art
flying
to
a
fresher
clime
.
Look
what
thy
soul
holds
dear
,
imagine
it
To
lie
that
way
thou
goest
,
not
whence
thou
com’st
.
Suppose
the
singing
birds
musicians
,
The
grass
whereon
thou
tread’st
the
presence
strewed
,
The
flowers
fair
ladies
,
and
thy
steps
no
more
Than
a
delightful
measure
or
a
dance
;
For
gnarling
sorrow
hath
less
power
to
bite
The
man
that
mocks
at
it
and
sets
it
light
.
O
,
how
that
name
befits
my
composition
!
Old
Gaunt
indeed
,
and
gaunt
in
being
old
.
Within
me
grief
hath
kept
a
tedious
fast
,
And
who
abstains
from
meat
that
is
not
gaunt
?
For
sleeping
England
long
time
have
I
watched
;
Watching
breeds
leanness
,
leanness
is
all
gaunt
.
The
pleasure
that
some
fathers
feed
upon
Is
my
strict
fast
—
I
mean
my
children’s
looks
—
And
,
therein
fasting
,
hast
thou
made
me
gaunt
.
Gaunt
am
I
for
the
grave
,
gaunt
as
a
grave
,
Whose
hollow
womb
inherits
naught
but
bones
.
A
lunatic
lean-witted
fool
,
Presuming
on
an
ague’s
privilege
,
Darest
with
thy
frozen
admonition
Make
pale
our
cheek
,
chasing
the
royal
blood
With
fury
from
his
native
residence
.
Now
,
by
my
seat’s
right
royal
majesty
,
Wert
thou
not
brother
to
great
Edward’s
son
,
This
tongue
that
runs
so
roundly
in
thy
head
Should
run
thy
head
from
thy
unreverent
shoulders
.
O
,
spare
me
not
,
my
brother
Edward’s
son
,
For
that
I
was
his
father
Edward’s
son
!
That
blood
already
,
like
the
pelican
,
Hast
thou
tapped
out
and
drunkenly
caroused
.
My
brother
Gloucester
—
plain
,
well-meaning
soul
,
Whom
fair
befall
in
heaven
’mongst
happy
souls
—
May
be
a
precedent
and
witness
good
That
thou
respect’st
not
spilling
Edward’s
blood
.
Join
with
the
present
sickness
that
I
have
,
And
thy
unkindness
be
like
crooked
age
To
crop
at
once
a
too-long
withered
flower
.
Live
in
thy
shame
,
but
die
not
shame
with
thee
!
These
words
hereafter
thy
tormentors
be
!
—
Convey
me
to
my
bed
,
then
to
my
grave
.
Love
they
to
live
that
love
and
honor
have
.
How
long
shall
I
be
patient
?
Ah
,
how
long
Shall
tender
duty
make
me
suffer
wrong
?
Not
Gloucester’s
death
,
nor
Hereford’s
banishment
,
Nor
Gaunt’s
rebukes
,
nor
England’s
private
wrongs
,
Nor
the
prevention
of
poor
Bolingbroke
About
his
marriage
,
nor
my
own
disgrace
,
Have
ever
made
me
sour
my
patient
cheek
Or
bend
one
wrinkle
on
my
sovereign’s
face
.
I
am
the
last
of
noble
Edward’s
sons
,
Of
whom
thy
father
,
Prince
of
Wales
,
was
first
.
In
war
was
never
lion
raged
more
fierce
,
In
peace
was
never
gentle
lamb
more
mild
,
Than
was
that
young
and
princely
gentleman
.
His
face
thou
hast
,
for
even
so
looked
he
,
Accomplished
with
the
number
of
thy
hours
;
But
when
he
frowned
,
it
was
against
the
French
And
not
against
his
friends
.
His
noble
hand
Did
win
what
he
did
spend
,
and
spent
not
that
Which
his
triumphant
father’s
hand
had
won
.
His
hands
were
guilty
of
no
kindred
blood
,
But
bloody
with
the
enemies
of
his
kin
.
O
,
Richard
!
York
is
too
far
gone
with
grief
,
Or
else
he
never
would
compare
between
.
Now
,
afore
God
,
’tis
shame
such
wrongs
are
borne
In
him
,
a
royal
prince
,
and
many
more
Of
noble
blood
in
this
declining
land
.
The
King
is
not
himself
,
but
basely
led
By
flatterers
;
and
what
they
will
inform
Merely
in
hate
’gainst
any
of
us
all
,
That
will
the
King
severely
prosecute
’Gainst
us
,
our
lives
,
our
children
,
and
our
heirs
.
Then
thus
:
I
have
from
Le
Port
Blanc
,
A
bay
in
Brittany
,
received
intelligence
That
Harry
Duke
of
Hereford
,
Rainold
Lord
Cobham
,
That
late
broke
from
the
Duke
of
Exeter
,
His
brother
,
archbishop
late
of
Canterbury
,
Sir
Thomas
Erpingham
,
Sir
John
Ramston
,
Sir
John
Norbery
,
Sir
Robert
Waterton
,
and
Francis
Coint
—
All
these
well
furnished
by
the
Duke
of
Brittany
With
eight
tall
ships
,
three
thousand
men
of
war
,
Are
making
hither
with
all
due
expedience
And
shortly
mean
to
touch
our
northern
shore
.
Perhaps
they
had
ere
this
,
but
that
they
stay
The
first
departing
of
the
King
for
Ireland
.
If
then
we
shall
shake
off
our
slavish
yoke
,
Imp
out
our
drooping
country’s
broken
wing
,
Redeem
from
broking
pawn
the
blemished
crown
,
Wipe
off
the
dust
that
hides
our
scepter’s
gilt
,
And
make
high
majesty
look
like
itself
,
Away
with
me
in
post
to
Ravenspurgh
.
But
if
you
faint
,
as
fearing
to
do
so
,
Stay
and
be
secret
,
and
myself
will
go
.
Each
substance
of
a
grief
hath
twenty
shadows
Which
shows
like
grief
itself
but
is
not
so
;
For
sorrow’s
eyes
,
glazed
with
blinding
tears
,
Divides
one
thing
entire
to
many
objects
,
Like
perspectives
,
which
rightly
gazed
upon
Show
nothing
but
confusion
,
eyed
awry
Distinguish
form
.
So
your
sweet
Majesty
,
Looking
awry
upon
your
lord’s
departure
,
Find
shapes
of
grief
more
than
himself
to
wail
,
Which
,
looked
on
as
it
is
,
is
naught
but
shadows
Of
what
it
is
not
.
Then
,
thrice-gracious
queen
,
More
than
your
lord’s
departure
weep
not
.
More
is
not
seen
,
Or
if
it
be
,
’tis
with
false
sorrow’s
eye
,
Which
for
things
true
weeps
things
imaginary
.
With
signs
of
war
about
his
agèd
neck
.
O
,
full
of
careful
business
are
his
looks
!
—
Uncle
,
for
God’s
sake
speak
comfortable
words
.
No
,
my
good
lord
,
for
that
is
not
forgot
Which
ne’er
I
did
remember
.
To
my
knowledge
I
never
in
my
life
did
look
on
him
.
Here
come
the
Lords
of
Ross
and
Willoughby
,
Bloody
with
spurring
,
fiery
red
with
haste
.
As
I
was
banished
,
I
was
banished
Hereford
,
But
as
I
come
,
I
come
for
Lancaster
.
And
,
noble
uncle
,
I
beseech
your
Grace
Look
on
my
wrongs
with
an
indifferent
eye
.
You
are
my
father
,
for
methinks
in
you
I
see
old
Gaunt
alive
.
O
,
then
,
my
father
,
Will
you
permit
that
I
shall
stand
condemned
A
wandering
vagabond
,
my
rights
and
royalties
Plucked
from
my
arms
perforce
and
given
away
To
upstart
unthrifts
?
Wherefore
was
I
born
?
If
that
my
cousin
king
be
king
in
England
,
It
must
be
granted
I
am
Duke
of
Lancaster
.
You
have
a
son
,
Aumerle
,
my
noble
cousin
.
Had
you
first
died
and
he
been
thus
trod
down
,
He
should
have
found
his
uncle
Gaunt
a
father
To
rouse
his
wrongs
and
chase
them
to
the
bay
.
I
am
denied
to
sue
my
livery
here
,
And
yet
my
letters
patents
give
me
leave
.
My
father’s
goods
are
all
distrained
and
sold
,
And
these
,
and
all
,
are
all
amiss
employed
.
What
would
you
have
me
do
?
I
am
a
subject
,
And
I
challenge
law
.
Attorneys
are
denied
me
,
And
therefore
personally
I
lay
my
claim
To
my
inheritance
of
free
descent
.
’Tis
thought
the
King
is
dead
.
We
will
not
stay
.
The
bay
trees
in
our
country
are
all
withered
,
And
meteors
fright
the
fixèd
stars
of
heaven
;
The
pale-faced
moon
looks
bloody
on
the
Earth
earth
,
And
lean-looked
prophets
whisper
fearful
change
;
Rich
men
look
sad
,
and
ruffians
dance
and
leap
,
The
one
in
fear
to
lose
what
they
enjoy
,
The
other
to
enjoy
by
rage
and
war
.
These
signs
forerun
the
death
or
fall
of
kings
.
Farewell
.
Our
countrymen
are
gone
and
fled
,
As
well
assured
Richard
their
king
is
dead
.
Bring
forth
these
men
.
—
Bushy
and
Green
,
I
will
not
vex
your
souls
,
Since
presently
your
souls
must
part
your
bodies
,
With
too
much
urging
your
pernicious
lives
,
For
’twere
no
charity
;
yet
to
wash
your
blood
From
off
my
hands
,
here
in
the
view
of
men
I
will
unfold
some
causes
of
your
deaths
:
You
have
misled
a
prince
,
a
royal
king
,
A
happy
gentleman
in
blood
and
lineaments
By
you
unhappied
and
disfigured
clean
.
You
have
in
manner
with
your
sinful
hours
Made
a
divorce
betwixt
his
queen
and
him
,
Broke
the
possession
of
a
royal
bed
,
And
stained
the
beauty
of
a
fair
queen’s
cheeks
With
tears
drawn
from
her
eyes
by
your
foul
wrongs
.
Myself
,
a
prince
by
fortune
of
my
birth
,
Near
to
the
King
in
blood
,
and
near
in
love
Till
you
did
make
him
misinterpret
me
,
Have
stooped
my
neck
under
your
injuries
And
sighed
my
English
breath
in
foreign
clouds
,
Eating
the
bitter
bread
of
banishment
,
Whilst
you
have
fed
upon
my
seigniories
,
Disparked
my
parks
and
felled
my
forest
woods
,
From
my
own
windows
torn
my
household
coat
,
Rased
out
my
imprese
,
leaving
me
no
sign
,
Save
men’s
opinions
and
my
living
blood
,
To
show
the
world
I
am
a
gentleman
.
This
and
much
more
,
much
more
than
twice
all
this
,
Condemns
you
to
the
death
.
—
See
them
delivered
over
To
execution
and
the
hand
of
death
.
Comfort
,
my
liege
.
Why
looks
your
Grace
so
pale
?
But
now
the
blood
of
twenty
thousand
men
Did
triumph
in
my
face
,
and
they
are
fled
;
And
till
so
much
blood
thither
come
again
Have
I
not
reason
to
look
pale
and
dead
?
All
souls
that
will
be
safe
,
fly
from
my
side
,
For
time
hath
set
a
blot
upon
my
pride
.
I
had
forgot
myself
.
Am
I
not
king
?
Awake
,
thou
coward
majesty
,
thou
sleepest
!
Is
not
the
King’s
name
twenty
thousand
names
?
Arm
,
arm
,
my
name
!
A
puny
subject
strikes
At
thy
great
glory
.
Look
not
to
the
ground
,
You
favorites
of
a
king
.
Are
we
not
high
?
High
be
our
thoughts
.
I
know
my
Uncle
York
Hath
power
enough
to
serve
our
turn
.
—
But
who
comes
here
?
O
villains
,
vipers
,
damned
without
redemption
!
Dogs
easily
won
to
fawn
on
any
man
!
Snakes
in
my
heart
blood
warmed
,
that
sting
my
heart
!
Three
Judases
,
each
one
thrice
worse
than
Judas
!
Would
they
make
peace
?
Terrible
hell
Make
war
upon
their
spotted
souls
for
this
!
No
matter
where
.
Of
comfort
no
man
speak
.
Let’s
talk
of
graves
,
of
worms
,
and
epitaphs
,
Make
dust
our
paper
,
and
with
rainy
eyes
Write
sorrow
on
the
bosom
of
the
earth
.
Let’s
choose
executors
and
talk
of
wills
.
And
yet
not
so
,
for
what
can
we
bequeath
Save
our
deposèd
bodies
to
the
ground
?
Our
lands
,
our
lives
,
and
all
are
Bolingbroke’s
,
And
nothing
can
we
call
our
own
but
death
And
that
small
model
of
the
barren
earth
Which
serves
as
paste
and
cover
to
our
bones
.
For
God’s
sake
,
let
us
sit
upon
the
ground
And
tell
sad
stories
of
the
death
of
kings
—
How
some
have
been
deposed
,
some
slain
in
war
,
Some
haunted
by
the
ghosts
they
have
deposed
,
Some
poisoned
by
their
wives
,
some
sleeping
killed
,
All
murdered
.
For
within
the
hollow
crown
That
rounds
the
mortal
temples
of
a
king
Keeps
Death
his
court
,
and
there
the
antic
sits
,
Scoffing
his
state
and
grinning
at
his
pomp
,
Allowing
him
a
breath
,
a
little
scene
,
To
monarchize
,
be
feared
,
and
kill
with
looks
,
Infusing
him
with
self
and
vain
conceit
,
As
if
this
flesh
which
walls
about
our
life
Were
brass
impregnable
;
and
humored
thus
,
Comes
at
the
last
and
with
a
little
pin
Bores
through
his
castle
wall
,
and
farewell
,
king
!
Cover
your
heads
,
and
mock
not
flesh
and
blood
With
solemn
reverence
.
Throw
away
respect
,
Tradition
,
form
,
and
ceremonious
duty
,
For
you
have
but
mistook
me
all
this
while
.
I
live
with
bread
like
you
,
feel
want
,
Taste
grief
,
need
friends
.
Subjected
thus
,
How
can
you
say
to
me
I
am
a
king
?
Thou
chid’st
me
well
.
—
Proud
Bolingbroke
,
I
come
To
change
blows
with
thee
for
our
day
of
doom
.
—
This
ague
fit
of
fear
is
overblown
.
An
easy
task
it
is
to
win
our
own
.
—
Say
,
Scroop
,
where
lies
our
uncle
with
his
power
?
Speak
sweetly
,
man
,
although
thy
looks
be
sour
.
Noble
lord
,
Go
to
the
rude
ribs
of
that
ancient
castle
,
Through
brazen
trumpet
send
the
breath
of
parley
Into
his
ruined
ears
,
and
thus
deliver
:
Henry
Bolingbroke
On
both
his
knees
doth
kiss
King
Richard’s
hand
,
And
sends
allegiance
and
true
faith
of
heart
To
his
most
royal
person
,
hither
come
Even
at
his
feet
to
lay
my
arms
and
power
,
Provided
that
my
banishment
repealed
And
lands
restored
again
be
freely
granted
.
If
not
,
I’ll
use
the
advantage
of
my
power
And
lay
the
summer’s
dust
with
showers
of
blood
Rained
from
the
wounds
of
slaughtered
Englishmen
—
The
which
how
far
off
from
the
mind
of
Bolingbroke
It
is
such
crimson
tempest
should
bedrench
The
fresh
green
lap
of
fair
King
Richard’s
land
,
My
stooping
duty
tenderly
shall
show
.
Go
signify
as
much
while
here
we
march
Upon
the
grassy
carpet
of
this
plain
.
Let’s
march
without
the
noise
of
threat’ning
drum
,
That
from
this
castle’s
tottered
battlements
Our
fair
appointments
may
be
well
perused
.
Methinks
King
Richard
and
myself
should
meet
With
no
less
terror
than
the
elements
Of
fire
and
water
when
their
thund’ring
shock
At
meeting
tears
the
cloudy
cheeks
of
heaven
.
Be
he
the
fire
,
I’ll
be
the
yielding
water
;
The
rage
be
his
,
whilst
on
the
earth
I
rain
My
waters
—
on
the
earth
,
and
not
on
him
.
March
on
,
and
mark
King
Richard
how
he
looks
.
See
,
see
,
King
Richard
doth
himself
appear
As
doth
the
blushing
discontented
sun
From
out
the
fiery
portal
of
the
east
When
he
perceives
the
envious
clouds
are
bent
To
dim
his
glory
and
to
stain
the
track
Of
his
bright
passage
to
the
occident
.
Yet
looks
he
like
a
king
.
Behold
,
his
eye
,
As
bright
as
is
the
eagle’s
,
lightens
forth
Controlling
majesty
.
Alack
,
alack
for
woe
That
any
harm
should
stain
so
fair
a
show
!
We
are
amazed
,
and
thus
long
have
we
stood
To
watch
the
fearful
bending
of
thy
knee
,
Because
we
thought
ourself
thy
lawful
king
.
An
if
we
be
,
how
dare
thy
joints
forget
To
pay
their
awful
duty
to
our
presence
?
If
we
be
not
,
show
us
the
hand
of
God
That
hath
dismissed
us
from
our
stewardship
,
For
well
we
know
no
hand
of
blood
and
bone
Can
gripe
the
sacred
handle
of
our
scepter
,
Unless
he
do
profane
,
steal
,
or
usurp
.
And
though
you
think
that
all
,
as
you
have
done
,
Have
torn
their
souls
by
turning
them
from
us
,
And
we
are
barren
and
bereft
of
friends
,
Yet
know
,
my
master
,
God
omnipotent
,
Is
mustering
in
his
clouds
on
our
behalf
Armies
of
pestilence
,
and
they
shall
strike
Your
children
yet
unborn
and
unbegot
,
That
lift
your
vassal
hands
against
my
head
And
threat
the
glory
of
my
precious
crown
.
Tell
Bolingbroke
—
for
yon
methinks
he
stands
—
That
every
stride
he
makes
upon
my
land
Is
dangerous
treason
.
He
is
come
to
open
The
purple
testament
of
bleeding
war
;
But
ere
the
crown
he
looks
for
live
in
peace
,
Ten
thousand
bloody
crowns
of
mothers’
sons
Shall
ill
become
the
flower
of
England’s
face
,
Change
the
complexion
of
her
maid-pale
peace
To
scarlet
indignation
,
and
bedew
Her
pastures’
grass
with
faithful
English
blood
.
The
King
of
heaven
forbid
our
lord
the
King
Should
so
with
civil
and
uncivil
arms
Be
rushed
upon
!
Thy
thrice-noble
cousin
,
Harry
Bolingbroke
,
doth
humbly
kiss
thy
hand
,
And
by
the
honorable
tomb
he
swears
That
stands
upon
your
royal
grandsire’s
bones
,
And
by
the
royalties
of
both
your
bloods
,
Currents
that
spring
from
one
most
gracious
head
,
And
by
the
buried
hand
of
warlike
Gaunt
,
And
by
the
worth
and
honor
of
himself
,
Comprising
all
that
may
be
sworn
or
said
,
His
coming
hither
hath
no
further
scope
Than
for
his
lineal
royalties
,
and
to
beg
Enfranchisement
immediate
on
his
knees
;
Which
on
thy
royal
party
granted
once
,
His
glittering
arms
he
will
commend
to
rust
,
His
barbèd
steeds
to
stables
,
and
his
heart
To
faithful
service
of
your
Majesty
.
This
swears
he
,
as
he
is
a
prince
and
just
,
And
as
I
am
a
gentleman
I
credit
him
.
Northumberland
,
say
thus
the
King
returns
:
His
noble
cousin
is
right
welcome
hither
,
And
all
the
number
of
his
fair
demands
Shall
be
accomplished
without
contradiction
.
With
all
the
gracious
utterance
thou
hast
,
Speak
to
his
gentle
hearing
kind
commends
.
We
do
debase
ourselves
,
cousin
,
do
we
not
,
To
look
so
poorly
and
to
speak
so
fair
?
Shall
we
call
back
Northumberland
and
send
Defiance
to
the
traitor
and
so
die
?
Go
,
bind
thou
up
young
dangling
apricokes
Which
,
like
unruly
children
,
make
their
sire
Stoop
with
oppression
of
their
prodigal
weight
.
Give
some
supportance
to
the
bending
twigs
.
—
Go
thou
,
and
like
an
executioner
Cut
off
the
heads
of
too-fast-growing
sprays
That
look
too
lofty
in
our
commonwealth
.
All
must
be
even
in
our
government
.
You
thus
employed
,
I
will
go
root
away
The
noisome
weeds
which
without
profit
suck
The
soil’s
fertility
from
wholesome
flowers
.
They
are
.
And
Bolingbroke
Hath
seized
the
wasteful
king
.
O
,
what
pity
is
it
That
he
had
not
so
trimmed
and
dressed
his
land
As
we
this
garden
!
We
at
time
of
year
Do
wound
the
bark
,
the
skin
of
our
fruit
trees
,
Lest
,
being
overproud
in
sap
and
blood
,
With
too
much
riches
it
confound
itself
.
Had
he
done
so
to
great
and
growing
men
,
They
might
have
lived
to
bear
and
he
to
taste
Their
fruits
of
duty
.
Superfluous
branches
We
lop
away
,
that
bearing
boughs
may
live
.
Had
he
done
so
,
himself
had
borne
the
crown
,
Which
waste
of
idle
hours
hath
quite
thrown
down
.
Nimble
mischance
,
that
art
so
light
of
foot
,
Doth
not
thy
embassage
belong
to
me
,
And
am
I
last
that
knows
it
?
O
,
thou
thinkest
To
serve
me
last
that
I
may
longest
keep
Thy
sorrow
in
my
breast
.
Come
,
ladies
,
go
To
meet
at
London
London’s
king
in
woe
.
What
,
was
I
born
to
this
,
that
my
sad
look
Should
grace
the
triumph
of
great
Bolingbroke
?
—
Gard’ner
,
for
telling
me
these
news
of
woe
,
Pray
God
the
plants
thou
graft’st
may
never
grow
.
Call
forth
Bagot
.
Now
,
Bagot
,
freely
speak
thy
mind
What
thou
dost
know
of
noble
Gloucester’s
death
,
Who
wrought
it
with
the
King
,
and
who
performed
The
bloody
office
of
his
timeless
end
.
Cousin
,
stand
forth
,
and
look
upon
that
man
.
Princes
and
noble
lords
,
What
answer
shall
I
make
to
this
base
man
?
Shall
I
so
much
dishonor
my
fair
stars
On
equal
terms
to
give
him
chastisement
?
Either
I
must
,
or
have
mine
honor
soiled
With
the
attainder
of
his
slanderous
lips
.
There
is
my
gage
,
the
manual
seal
of
death
That
marks
thee
out
for
hell
.
I
say
thou
liest
,
And
will
maintain
what
thou
hast
said
is
false
In
thy
heart-blood
,
though
being
all
too
base
To
stain
the
temper
of
my
knightly
sword
.
Marry
,
God
forbid
!
Worst
in
this
royal
presence
may
I
speak
,
Yet
best
beseeming
me
to
speak
the
truth
.
Would
God
that
any
in
this
noble
presence
Were
enough
noble
to
be
upright
judge
Of
noble
Richard
!
Then
true
noblesse
would
Learn
him
forbearance
from
so
foul
a
wrong
.
What
subject
can
give
sentence
on
his
king
?
And
who
sits
here
that
is
not
Richard’s
subject
?
Thieves
are
not
judged
but
they
are
by
to
hear
,
Although
apparent
guilt
be
seen
in
them
;
And
shall
the
figure
of
God’s
majesty
,
His
captain
,
steward
,
deputy
elect
,
Anointed
,
crowned
,
planted
many
years
,
Be
judged
by
subject
and
inferior
breath
,
And
he
himself
not
present
?
O
,
forfend
it
God
That
in
a
Christian
climate
souls
refined
Should
show
so
heinous
,
black
,
obscene
a
deed
!
I
speak
to
subjects
and
a
subject
speaks
,
Stirred
up
by
God
thus
boldly
for
his
king
.
My
Lord
of
Hereford
here
,
whom
you
call
king
,
Is
a
foul
traitor
to
proud
Hereford’s
king
,
And
if
you
crown
him
,
let
me
prophesy
The
blood
of
English
shall
manure
the
ground
And
future
ages
groan
for
this
foul
act
,
Peace
shall
go
sleep
with
Turks
and
infidels
,
And
in
this
seat
of
peace
tumultuous
wars
Shall
kin
with
kin
and
kind
with
kind
confound
.
Disorder
,
horror
,
fear
,
and
mutiny
Shall
here
inhabit
,
and
this
land
be
called
The
field
of
Golgotha
and
dead
men’s
skulls
.
O
,
if
you
raise
this
house
against
this
house
,
It
will
the
woefullest
division
prove
That
ever
fell
upon
this
cursèd
earth
!
Prevent
it
,
resist
it
,
let
it
not
be
so
,
Lest
child
,
child’s
children
,
cry
against
you
woe
!
Lords
,
you
that
here
are
under
our
arrest
,
Procure
your
sureties
for
your
days
of
answer
.
Little
are
we
beholding
to
your
love
And
little
looked
for
at
your
helping
hands
.
Must
I
do
so
?
And
must
I
ravel
out
My
weaved-up
follies
?
Gentle
Northumberland
,
If
thy
offenses
were
upon
record
,
Would
it
not
shame
thee
in
so
fair
a
troop
To
read
a
lecture
of
them
?
If
thou
wouldst
,
There
shouldst
thou
find
one
heinous
article
Containing
the
deposing
of
a
king
And
cracking
the
strong
warrant
of
an
oath
,
Marked
with
a
blot
,
damned
in
the
book
of
heaven
.
—
Nay
,
all
of
you
that
stand
and
look
upon
me
Whilst
that
my
wretchedness
doth
bait
myself
,
Though
some
of
you
,
with
Pilate
,
wash
your
hands
,
Showing
an
outward
pity
,
yet
you
Pilates
Have
here
delivered
me
to
my
sour
cross
,
And
water
cannot
wash
away
your
sin
.
Go
,
some
of
you
,
and
fetch
a
looking-glass
.
This
way
the
King
will
come
.
This
is
the
way
To
Julius
Caesar’s
ill-erected
tower
,
To
whose
flint
bosom
my
condemnèd
lord
Is
doomed
a
prisoner
by
proud
Bolingbroke
.
Here
let
us
rest
,
if
this
rebellious
earth
Have
any
resting
for
her
true
king’s
queen
.
But
soft
,
but
see
—
or
rather
do
not
see
My
fair
rose
wither
;
yet
look
up
,
behold
,
That
you
in
pity
may
dissolve
to
dew
And
wash
him
fresh
again
with
true-love
tears
.
—
Ah
,
thou
,
the
model
where
old
Troy
did
stand
,
Thou
map
of
honor
,
thou
King
Richard’s
tomb
,
And
not
King
Richard
!
Thou
most
beauteous
inn
,
Why
should
hard-favored
grief
be
lodged
in
thee
When
triumph
is
become
an
alehouse
guest
?
Then
,
as
I
said
,
the
Duke
,
great
Bolingbroke
,
Mounted
upon
a
hot
and
fiery
steed
,
Which
his
aspiring
rider
seemed
to
know
,
With
slow
but
stately
pace
kept
on
his
course
,
Whilst
all
tongues
cried
God
save
thee
,
Bolingbroke
!
You
would
have
thought
the
very
windows
spake
,
So
many
greedy
looks
of
young
and
old
Through
casements
darted
their
desiring
eyes
Upon
his
visage
,
and
that
all
the
walls
With
painted
imagery
had
said
at
once
Jesu
preserve
thee
!
Welcome
,
Bolingbroke
!
Whilst
he
,
from
the
one
side
to
the
other
turning
,
Bareheaded
,
lower
than
his
proud
steed’s
neck
,
Bespake
them
thus
:
I
thank
you
,
countrymen
.
And
thus
still
doing
,
thus
he
passed
along
.
What
seal
is
that
that
hangs
without
thy
bosom
?
Yea
,
lookst
thou
pale
?
Let
me
see
the
writing
.
Can
no
man
tell
me
of
my
unthrifty
son
?
’Tis
full
three
months
since
I
did
see
him
last
.
If
any
plague
hang
over
us
,
’tis
he
.
I
would
to
God
,
my
lords
,
he
might
be
found
.
Inquire
at
London
,
’mongst
the
taverns
there
,
For
there
,
they
say
,
he
daily
doth
frequent
With
unrestrainèd
loose
companions
,
Even
such
,
they
say
,
as
stand
in
narrow
lanes
And
beat
our
watch
and
rob
our
passengers
,
While
he
,
young
wanton
and
effeminate
boy
,
Takes
on
the
point
of
honor
to
support
So
dissolute
a
crew
.
What
means
our
cousin
,
that
he
stares
and
looks
so
wildly
?
My
liege
,
beware
!
Look
to
thyself
!
Thou
hast
a
traitor
in
thy
presence
there
.
Pleads
he
in
earnest
?
Look
upon
his
face
.
His
eyes
do
drop
no
tears
,
his
prayers
are
in
jest
;
His
words
come
from
his
mouth
,
ours
from
our
breast
.
He
prays
but
faintly
,
and
would
be
denied
.
We
pray
with
heart
and
soul
and
all
beside
.
His
weary
joints
would
gladly
rise
,
I
know
.
Our
knees
still
kneel
till
to
the
ground
they
grow
.
His
prayers
are
full
of
false
hypocrisy
,
Ours
of
true
zeal
and
deep
integrity
.
Our
prayers
do
outpray
his
.
Then
let
them
have
That
mercy
which
true
prayer
ought
to
have
.
And
speaking
it
,
he
wishtly
looked
on
me
,
As
who
should
say
I
would
thou
wert
the
man
That
would
divorce
this
terror
from
my
heart
—
Meaning
the
king
at
Pomfret
.
Come
,
let’s
go
.
I
am
the
King’s
friend
,
and
will
rid
his
foe
.
I
was
a
poor
groom
of
thy
stable
,
king
,
When
thou
wert
king
;
who
,
traveling
towards
York
,
With
much
ado
at
length
have
gotten
leave
To
look
upon
my
sometime
royal
master’s
face
.
O
,
how
it
earned
my
heart
when
I
beheld
In
London
streets
,
that
coronation
day
,
When
Bolingbroke
rode
on
roan
Barbary
,
That
horse
that
thou
so
often
hast
bestrid
,
That
horse
that
I
so
carefully
have
dressed
.
How
now
,
what
means
death
in
this
rude
assault
?
Villain
,
thy
own
hand
yields
thy
death’s
instrument
.
Go
thou
and
fill
another
room
in
hell
.
That
hand
shall
burn
in
never-quenching
fire
That
staggers
thus
my
person
.
Exton
,
thy
fierce
hand
Hath
with
the
King’s
blood
stained
the
King’s
own
land
.
Mount
,
mount
,
my
soul
.
Thy
seat
is
up
on
high
,
Whilst
my
gross
flesh
sinks
downward
,
here
to
die
.
As
full
of
valor
as
of
royal
blood
.
Both
have
I
spilled
.
O
,
would
the
deed
were
good
!
For
now
the
devil
that
told
me
I
did
well
Says
that
this
deed
is
chronicled
in
hell
.
This
dead
king
to
the
living
king
I’ll
bear
.
Take
hence
the
rest
and
give
them
burial
here
.
They
love
not
poison
that
do
poison
need
,
Nor
do
I
thee
.
Though
I
did
wish
him
dead
,
I
hate
the
murderer
,
love
him
murderèd
.
The
guilt
of
conscience
take
thou
for
thy
labor
,
But
neither
my
good
word
nor
princely
favor
.
With
Cain
go
wander
through
shades
of
night
,
And
never
show
thy
head
by
day
nor
light
.
Lords
,
I
protest
my
soul
is
full
of
woe
That
blood
should
sprinkle
me
to
make
me
grow
.
Come
mourn
with
me
for
what
I
do
lament
,
And
put
on
sullen
black
incontinent
.
I’ll
make
a
voyage
to
the
Holy
Land
To
wash
this
blood
off
from
my
guilty
hand
.
March
sadly
after
.
Grace
my
mournings
here
In
weeping
after
this
untimely
bier
.
Now
is
the
winter
of
our
discontent
Made
glorious
summer
by
this
son
of
York
,
And
all
the
clouds
that
loured
upon
our
house
In
the
deep
bosom
of
the
ocean
buried
.
Now
are
our
brows
bound
with
victorious
wreaths
,
Our
bruisèd
arms
hung
up
for
monuments
,
Our
stern
alarums
changed
to
merry
meetings
,
Our
dreadful
marches
to
delightful
measures
.
Grim-visaged
war
hath
smoothed
his
wrinkled
front
;
And
now
,
instead
of
mounting
barbèd
steeds
To
fright
the
souls
of
fearful
adversaries
,
He
capers
nimbly
in
a
lady’s
chamber
To
the
lascivious
pleasing
of
a
lute
.
But
I
,
that
am
not
shaped
for
sportive
tricks
,
Nor
made
to
court
an
amorous
looking
glass
;
I
,
that
am
rudely
stamped
and
want
love’s
majesty
To
strut
before
a
wanton
ambling
nymph
;
I
,
that
am
curtailed
of
this
fair
proportion
,
Cheated
of
feature
by
dissembling
nature
,
Deformed
,
unfinished
,
sent
before
my
time
Into
this
breathing
world
scarce
half
made
up
,
And
that
so
lamely
and
unfashionable
That
dogs
bark
at
me
as
I
halt
by
them
—
Why
,
I
,
in
this
weak
piping
time
of
peace
,
Have
no
delight
to
pass
away
the
time
,
Unless
to
see
my
shadow
in
the
sun
And
descant
on
mine
own
deformity
.
And
therefore
,
since
I
cannot
prove
a
lover
To
entertain
these
fair
well-spoken
days
,
I
am
determinèd
to
prove
a
villain
And
hate
the
idle
pleasures
of
these
days
.
Plots
have
I
laid
,
inductions
dangerous
,
By
drunken
prophecies
,
libels
,
and
dreams
,
To
set
my
brother
Clarence
and
the
King
In
deadly
hate
,
the
one
against
the
other
;
And
if
King
Edward
be
as
true
and
just
As
I
am
subtle
,
false
,
and
treacherous
,
This
day
should
Clarence
closely
be
mewed
up
About
a
prophecy
which
says
that
G
Of
Edward’s
heirs
the
murderer
shall
be
.
Dive
,
thoughts
,
down
to
my
soul
.
Here
Clarence
comes
.
Brother
,
good
day
.
What
means
this
armèd
guard
That
waits
upon
your
Grace
?
Set
down
,
set
down
your
honorable
load
,
If
honor
may
be
shrouded
in
a
hearse
,
Whilst
I
awhile
obsequiously
lament
Th’
untimely
fall
of
virtuous
Lancaster
.
Poor
key-cold
figure
of
a
holy
king
,
Pale
ashes
of
the
house
of
Lancaster
,
Thou
bloodless
remnant
of
that
royal
blood
,
Be
it
lawful
that
I
invocate
thy
ghost
To
hear
the
lamentations
of
poor
Anne
,
Wife
to
thy
Edward
,
to
thy
slaughtered
son
,
Stabbed
by
the
selfsame
hand
that
made
these
wounds
.
Lo
,
in
these
windows
that
let
forth
thy
life
I
pour
the
helpless
balm
of
my
poor
eyes
.
O
,
cursèd
be
the
hand
that
made
these
holes
;
Cursèd
the
heart
that
had
the
heart
to
do
it
;
Cursèd
the
blood
that
let
this
blood
from
hence
.
More
direful
hap
betide
that
hated
wretch
That
makes
us
wretched
by
the
death
of
thee
Than
I
can
wish
to
wolves
,
to
spiders
,
toads
,
Or
any
creeping
venomed
thing
that
lives
.
If
ever
he
have
child
,
abortive
be
it
,
Prodigious
,
and
untimely
brought
to
light
,
Whose
ugly
and
unnatural
aspect
May
fright
the
hopeful
mother
at
the
view
,
And
that
be
heir
to
his
unhappiness
.
If
ever
he
have
wife
,
let
her
be
made
More
miserable
by
the
death
of
him
Than
I
am
made
by
my
young
lord
and
thee
.
—
Come
now
towards
Chertsey
with
your
holy
load
,
Taken
from
Paul’s
to
be
interrèd
there
.
And
still
,
as
you
are
weary
of
this
weight
,
Rest
you
,
whiles
I
lament
King
Henry’s
corse
.
Foul
devil
,
for
God’s
sake
,
hence
,
and
trouble
us
not
,
For
thou
hast
made
the
happy
Earth
earth
thy
hell
,
Filled
it
with
cursing
cries
and
deep
exclaims
.
If
thou
delight
to
view
thy
heinous
deeds
,
Behold
this
pattern
of
thy
butcheries
.
O
,
gentlemen
,
see
,
see
dead
Henry’s
wounds
Open
their
congealed
mouths
and
bleed
afresh
!
—
Blush
,
blush
,
thou
lump
of
foul
deformity
,
For
’tis
thy
presence
that
exhales
this
blood
From
cold
and
empty
veins
where
no
blood
dwells
.
Thy
deeds
,
inhuman
and
unnatural
,
Provokes
this
deluge
most
unnatural
.
—
O
God
,
which
this
blood
mad’st
,
revenge
his
death
!
O
Earth
earth
,
which
this
blood
drink’st
,
revenge
his
death
!
Either
heaven
with
lightning
strike
the
murderer
dead
,
Or
Earth
earth
gape
open
wide
and
eat
him
quick
,
As
thou
dost
swallow
up
this
good
king’s
blood
,
Which
his
hell-governed
arm
hath
butcherèd
.
In
thy
foul
throat
thou
liest
.
Queen
Margaret
saw
Thy
murd’rous
falchion
smoking
in
his
blood
,
The
which
thou
once
didst
bend
against
her
breast
,
But
that
thy
brothers
beat
aside
the
point
.
Thou
wast
provokèd
by
thy
bloody
mind
,
That
never
dream’st
on
aught
but
butcheries
.
Didst
thou
not
kill
this
king
?
I
would
they
were
,
that
I
might
die
at
once
,
For
now
they
kill
me
with
a
living
death
.
Those
eyes
of
thine
from
mine
have
drawn
salt
tears
,
Shamed
their
aspects
with
store
of
childish
drops
.
These
eyes
,
which
never
shed
remorseful
tear
—
No
,
when
my
father
York
and
Edward
wept
To
hear
the
piteous
moan
that
Rutland
made
When
black-faced
Clifford
shook
his
sword
at
him
;
Nor
when
thy
warlike
father
,
like
a
child
,
Told
the
sad
story
of
my
father’s
death
And
twenty
times
made
pause
to
sob
and
weep
,
That
all
the
standers-by
had
wet
their
cheeks
Like
trees
bedashed
with
rain
—
in
that
sad
time
,
My
manly
eyes
did
scorn
an
humble
tear
;
And
what
these
sorrows
could
not
thence
exhale
Thy
beauty
hath
,
and
made
them
blind
with
weeping
.
I
never
sued
to
friend
,
nor
enemy
;
My
tongue
could
never
learn
sweet
smoothing
word
.
But
now
thy
beauty
is
proposed
my
fee
,
My
proud
heart
sues
and
prompts
my
tongue
to
speak
.
Teach
not
thy
lip
such
scorn
,
for
it
was
made
For
kissing
,
lady
,
not
for
such
contempt
.
If
thy
revengeful
heart
cannot
forgive
,
Lo
,
here
I
lend
thee
this
sharp-pointed
sword
,
Which
if
thou
please
to
hide
in
this
true
breast
And
let
the
soul
forth
that
adoreth
thee
,
I
lay
it
naked
to
the
deadly
stroke
And
humbly
beg
the
death
upon
my
knee
.
Nay
,
do
not
pause
,
for
I
did
kill
King
Henry
—
But
’twas
thy
beauty
that
provokèd
me
.
Nay
,
now
dispatch
;
’twas
I
that
stabbed
young
Edward
—
But
’twas
thy
heavenly
face
that
set
me
on
.
Take
up
the
sword
again
,
or
take
up
me
.
Look
how
my
ring
encompasseth
thy
finger
;
Even
so
thy
breast
encloseth
my
poor
heart
.
Wear
both
of
them
,
for
both
of
them
are
thine
.
And
if
thy
poor
devoted
servant
may
But
beg
one
favor
at
thy
gracious
hand
,
Thou
dost
confirm
his
happiness
forever
.
No
,
to
Whitefriars
.
There
attend
my
coming
.
Was
ever
woman
in
this
humor
wooed
?
Was
ever
woman
in
this
humor
won
?
I’ll
have
her
,
but
I
will
not
keep
her
long
.
What
,
I
that
killed
her
husband
and
his
father
,
To
take
her
in
her
heart’s
extremest
hate
,
With
curses
in
her
mouth
,
tears
in
her
eyes
,
The
bleeding
witness
of
my
hatred
by
,
Having
God
,
her
conscience
,
and
these
bars
against
me
,
And
I
no
friends
to
back
my
suit
at
all
But
the
plain
devil
and
dissembling
looks
?
And
yet
to
win
her
,
all
the
world
to
nothing
!
Ha
!
Hath
she
forgot
already
that
brave
prince
,
Edward
,
her
lord
,
whom
I
some
three
months
since
Stabbed
in
my
angry
mood
at
Tewkesbury
?
A
sweeter
and
a
lovelier
gentleman
,
Framed
in
the
prodigality
of
nature
,
Young
,
valiant
,
wise
,
and
,
no
doubt
,
right
royal
,
The
spacious
world
cannot
again
afford
.
And
will
she
yet
abase
her
eyes
on
me
,
That
cropped
the
golden
prime
of
this
sweet
prince
And
made
her
widow
to
a
woeful
bed
?
On
me
,
whose
all
not
equals
Edward’s
moiety
?
On
me
,
that
halts
and
am
misshapen
thus
?
My
dukedom
to
a
beggarly
denier
,
I
do
mistake
my
person
all
this
while
!
Upon
my
life
,
she
finds
,
although
I
cannot
,
Myself
to
be
a
marv’lous
proper
man
.
I’ll
be
at
charges
for
a
looking
glass
And
entertain
a
score
or
two
of
tailors
To
study
fashions
to
adorn
my
body
.
Since
I
am
crept
in
favor
with
myself
,
I
will
maintain
it
with
some
little
cost
.
But
first
I’ll
turn
yon
fellow
in
his
grave
And
then
return
lamenting
to
my
love
.
Shine
out
,
fair
sun
,
till
I
have
bought
a
glass
,
That
I
may
see
my
shadow
as
I
pass
.
They
do
me
wrong
,
and
I
will
not
endure
it
!
Who
is
it
that
complains
unto
the
King
That
I
,
forsooth
,
am
stern
and
love
them
not
?
By
holy
Paul
,
they
love
his
Grace
but
lightly
That
fill
his
ears
with
such
dissentious
rumors
.
Because
I
cannot
flatter
and
look
fair
,
Smile
in
men’s
faces
,
smooth
,
deceive
,
and
cog
,
Duck
with
French
nods
and
apish
courtesy
,
I
must
be
held
a
rancorous
enemy
.
Cannot
a
plain
man
live
and
think
no
harm
,
But
thus
his
simple
truth
must
be
abused
With
silken
,
sly
,
insinuating
Jacks
?
What
,
threat
you
me
with
telling
of
the
King
?
Tell
him
and
spare
not
.
Look
,
what
I
have
said
,
I
will
avouch
’t
in
presence
of
the
King
;
I
dare
adventure
to
be
sent
to
th’
Tower
.
’Tis
time
to
speak
.
My
pains
are
quite
forgot
.
Ere
you
were
queen
,
ay
,
or
your
husband
king
,
I
was
a
packhorse
in
his
great
affairs
,
A
weeder-out
of
his
proud
adversaries
,
A
liberal
rewarder
of
his
friends
.
To
royalize
his
blood
,
I
spent
mine
own
.
Ay
,
and
much
better
blood
than
his
or
thine
.
As
little
joy
enjoys
the
queen
thereof
,
For
I
am
she
,
and
altogether
joyless
.
I
can
no
longer
hold
me
patient
.
Hear
me
,
you
wrangling
pirates
,
that
fall
out
In
sharing
that
which
you
have
pilled
from
me
!
Which
of
you
trembles
not
that
looks
on
me
?
If
not
,
that
I
am
queen
,
you
bow
like
subjects
,
Yet
that
,
by
you
deposed
,
you
quake
like
rebels
.
—
Ah
,
gentle
villain
,
do
not
turn
away
.
The
curse
my
noble
father
laid
on
thee
When
thou
didst
crown
his
warlike
brows
with
paper
,
And
with
thy
scorns
drew’st
rivers
from
his
eyes
,
And
then
,
to
dry
them
,
gav’st
the
Duke
a
clout
Steeped
in
the
faultless
blood
of
pretty
Rutland
—
His
curses
then
,
from
bitterness
of
soul
Denounced
against
thee
,
are
all
fall’n
upon
thee
,
And
God
,
not
we
,
hath
plagued
thy
bloody
deed
.
What
,
were
you
snarling
all
before
I
came
,
Ready
to
catch
each
other
by
the
throat
,
And
turn
you
all
your
hatred
now
on
me
?
Did
York’s
dread
curse
prevail
so
much
with
heaven
That
Henry’s
death
,
my
lovely
Edward’s
death
,
Their
kingdom’s
loss
,
my
woeful
banishment
,
Should
all
but
answer
for
that
peevish
brat
?
Can
curses
pierce
the
clouds
and
enter
heaven
?
Why
then
,
give
way
,
dull
clouds
,
to
my
quick
curses
!
Though
not
by
war
,
by
surfeit
die
your
king
,
As
ours
by
murder
to
make
him
a
king
.
Edward
thy
son
,
that
now
is
Prince
of
Wales
,
For
Edward
our
son
,
that
was
Prince
of
Wales
,
Die
in
his
youth
by
like
untimely
violence
.
Thyself
a
queen
,
for
me
that
was
a
queen
,
Outlive
thy
glory
,
like
my
wretched
self
.
Long
mayst
thou
live
to
wail
thy
children’s
death
And
see
another
,
as
I
see
thee
now
,
Decked
in
thy
rights
,
as
thou
art
stalled
in
mine
.
Long
die
thy
happy
days
before
thy
death
,
And
,
after
many
lengthened
hours
of
grief
,
Die
neither
mother
,
wife
,
nor
England’s
queen
.
—
Rivers
and
Dorset
,
you
were
standers-by
,
And
so
wast
thou
,
Lord
Hastings
,
when
my
son
Was
stabbed
with
bloody
daggers
.
God
I
pray
Him
That
none
of
you
may
live
his
natural
age
,
But
by
some
unlooked
accident
cut
off
.
Why
,
so
I
did
,
but
looked
for
no
reply
.
O
,
let
me
make
the
period
to
my
curse
!
And
turns
the
sun
to
shade
.
Alas
,
alas
,
Witness
my
son
,
now
in
the
shade
of
death
,
Whose
bright
out-shining
beams
thy
cloudy
wrath
Hath
in
eternal
darkness
folded
up
.
Your
aerie
buildeth
in
our
aerie’s
nest
.
O
God
,
that
seest
it
,
do
not
suffer
it
!
As
it
is
won
with
blood
,
lost
be
it
so
.
O
princely
Buckingham
,
I’ll
kiss
thy
hand
In
sign
of
league
and
amity
with
thee
.
Now
fair
befall
thee
and
thy
noble
house
!
Thy
garments
are
not
spotted
with
our
blood
,
Nor
thou
within
the
compass
of
my
curse
.
I
will
not
think
but
they
ascend
the
sky
,
And
there
awake
God’s
gentle
sleeping
peace
.
O
Buckingham
,
take
heed
of
yonder
dog
!
Look
when
he
fawns
,
he
bites
;
and
when
he
bites
,
His
venom
tooth
will
rankle
to
the
death
.
Have
not
to
do
with
him
.
Beware
of
him
.
Sin
,
death
,
and
hell
have
set
their
marks
on
him
,
And
all
their
ministers
attend
on
him
.
Why
looks
your
Grace
so
heavily
today
?
Methoughts
that
I
had
broken
from
the
Tower
And
was
embarked
to
cross
to
Burgundy
,
And
in
my
company
my
brother
Gloucester
,
Who
from
my
cabin
tempted
me
to
walk
Upon
the
hatches
.
Thence
we
looked
toward
England
And
cited
up
a
thousand
heavy
times
,
During
the
wars
of
York
and
Lancaster
,
That
had
befall’n
us
.
As
we
paced
along
Upon
the
giddy
footing
of
the
hatches
,
Methought
that
Gloucester
stumbled
,
and
in
falling
Struck
me
,
that
thought
to
stay
him
,
overboard
Into
the
tumbling
billows
of
the
main
.
O
Lord
,
methought
what
pain
it
was
to
drown
,
What
dreadful
noise
of
waters
in
my
ears
,
What
sights
of
ugly
death
within
my
eyes
.
Methoughts
I
saw
a
thousand
fearful
wracks
,
A
thousand
men
that
fishes
gnawed
upon
,
Wedges
of
gold
,
great
anchors
,
heaps
of
pearl
,
Inestimable
stones
,
unvalued
jewels
,
All
scattered
in
the
bottom
of
the
sea
.
Some
lay
in
dead
men’s
skulls
,
and
in
the
holes
Where
eyes
did
once
inhabit
,
there
were
crept
—
As
’twere
in
scorn
of
eyes
—
reflecting
gems
,
That
wooed
the
slimy
bottom
of
the
deep
And
mocked
the
dead
bones
that
lay
scattered
by
.
Methought
I
had
,
and
often
did
I
strive
To
yield
the
ghost
,
but
still
the
envious
flood
Stopped
in
my
soul
and
would
not
let
it
forth
To
find
the
empty
,
vast
,
and
wand’ring
air
,
But
smothered
it
within
my
panting
bulk
,
Who
almost
burst
to
belch
it
in
the
sea
.
No
,
no
,
my
dream
was
lengthened
after
life
.
O
,
then
began
the
tempest
to
my
soul
.
I
passed
,
methought
,
the
melancholy
flood
,
With
that
sour
ferryman
which
poets
write
of
,
Unto
the
kingdom
of
perpetual
night
.
The
first
that
there
did
greet
my
stranger-soul
Was
my
great
father-in-law
,
renownèd
Warwick
,
Who
spake
aloud
What
scourge
for
perjury
Can
this
dark
monarchy
afford
false
Clarence
?
And
so
he
vanished
.
Then
came
wand’ring
by
A
shadow
like
an
angel
,
with
bright
hair
Dabbled
in
blood
,
and
he
shrieked
out
aloud
Clarence
is
come
—
false
,
fleeting
,
perjured
Clarence
,
That
stabbed
me
in
the
field
by
Tewkesbury
.
Seize
on
him
,
furies
.
Take
him
unto
torment
.
With
that
,
methoughts
,
a
legion
of
foul
fiends
Environed
me
and
howlèd
in
mine
ears
Such
hideous
cries
that
with
the
very
noise
I
trembling
waked
,
and
for
a
season
after
Could
not
believe
but
that
I
was
in
hell
,
Such
terrible
impression
made
my
dream
.
Thy
voice
is
thunder
,
but
thy
looks
are
humble
.
My
voice
is
now
the
King’s
,
my
looks
mine
own
.
How
darkly
and
how
deadly
dost
thou
speak
!
Your
eyes
do
menace
me
.
Why
look
you
pale
?
Who
sent
you
hither
?
Wherefore
do
you
come
?
Are
you
drawn
forth
among
a
world
of
men
To
slay
the
innocent
?
What
is
my
offense
?
Where
is
the
evidence
that
doth
accuse
me
?
What
lawful
quest
have
given
their
verdict
up
Unto
the
frowning
judge
?
Or
who
pronounced
The
bitter
sentence
of
poor
Clarence’
death
Before
I
be
convict
by
course
of
law
?
To
threaten
me
with
death
is
most
unlawful
.
I
charge
you
,
as
you
hope
to
have
redemption
,
By
Christ’s
dear
blood
shed
for
our
grievous
sins
,
That
you
depart
,
and
lay
no
hands
on
me
.
The
deed
you
undertake
is
damnable
.
Who
made
thee
then
a
bloody
minister
When
gallant-springing
,
brave
Plantagenet
,
That
princely
novice
,
was
struck
dead
by
thee
?
Not
to
relent
is
beastly
,
savage
,
devilish
.
My
friend
,
I
spy
some
pity
in
thy
looks
.
O
,
if
thine
eye
be
not
a
flatterer
,
Come
thou
on
my
side
and
entreat
for
me
.
A
begging
prince
what
beggar
pities
not
?
Look behind you , my lord .
A
bloody
deed
,
and
desperately
dispatched
.
How
fain
,
like
Pilate
,
would
I
wash
my
hands
Of
this
most
grievous
murder
.
Look
I
so
pale
,
Lord
Dorset
,
as
the
rest
?
But
he
,
poor
man
,
by
your
first
order
died
,
And
that
a
wingèd
Mercury
did
bear
.
Some
tardy
cripple
bare
the
countermand
,
That
came
too
lag
to
see
him
burièd
.
God
grant
that
some
,
less
noble
and
less
loyal
,
Nearer
in
bloody
thoughts
,
and
not
in
blood
,
Deserve
not
worse
than
wretched
Clarence
did
,
And
yet
go
current
from
suspicion
.
This
is
the
fruits
of
rashness
.
Marked
you
not
How
that
the
guilty
kindred
of
the
Queen
Looked
pale
when
they
did
hear
of
Clarence’
death
?
O
,
they
did
urge
it
still
unto
the
King
.
God
will
revenge
it
.
Come
,
lords
,
will
you
go
To
comfort
Edward
with
our
company
?
Why
do
you
look
on
us
and
shake
your
head
,
And
call
us
orphans
,
wretches
,
castaways
,
If
that
our
noble
father
were
alive
?
Ah
,
so
much
interest
have
I
in
thy
sorrow
As
I
had
title
in
thy
noble
husband
.
I
have
bewept
a
worthy
husband’s
death
And
lived
with
looking
on
his
images
;
But
now
two
mirrors
of
his
princely
semblance
Are
cracked
in
pieces
by
malignant
death
,
And
I
,
for
comfort
,
have
but
one
false
glass
That
grieves
me
when
I
see
my
shame
in
him
.
Thou
art
a
widow
,
yet
thou
art
a
mother
,
And
hast
the
comfort
of
thy
children
left
,
But
death
hath
snatched
my
husband
from
mine
arms
And
plucked
two
crutches
from
my
feeble
hands
,
Clarence
and
Edward
.
O
,
what
cause
have
I
,
Thine
being
but
a
moiety
of
my
moan
,
To
overgo
thy
woes
and
drown
thy
cries
!
Then
,
masters
,
look
to
see
a
troublous
world
.
When
clouds
are
seen
,
wise
men
put
on
their
cloaks
;
When
great
leaves
fall
,
then
winter
is
at
hand
;
When
the
sun
sets
,
who
doth
not
look
for
night
?
Untimely
storms
makes
men
expect
a
dearth
.
All
may
be
well
;
but
if
God
sort
it
so
,
’Tis
more
than
we
deserve
or
I
expect
.
Truly
,
the
hearts
of
men
are
full
of
fear
.
You
cannot
reason
almost
with
a
man
That
looks
not
heavily
and
full
of
dread
.
Ay
me
!
I
see
the
ruin
of
my
house
.
The
tiger
now
hath
seized
the
gentle
hind
.
Insulting
tyranny
begins
to
jut
Upon
the
innocent
and
aweless
throne
.
Welcome
,
destruction
,
blood
,
and
massacre
.
I
see
,
as
in
a
map
,
the
end
of
all
.
Accursèd
and
unquiet
wrangling
days
,
How
many
of
you
have
mine
eyes
beheld
?
My
husband
lost
his
life
to
get
the
crown
,
And
often
up
and
down
my
sons
were
tossed
For
me
to
joy
,
and
weep
,
their
gain
and
loss
.
And
being
seated
,
and
domestic
broils
Clean
overblown
,
themselves
the
conquerors
Make
war
upon
themselves
,
brother
to
brother
,
Blood
to
blood
,
self
against
self
.
O
,
preposterous
And
frantic
outrage
,
end
thy
damnèd
spleen
,
Or
let
me
die
,
to
look
on
Earth
earth
no
more
.
Sweet
prince
,
the
untainted
virtue
of
your
years
Hath
not
yet
dived
into
the
world’s
deceit
;
Nor
more
can
you
distinguish
of
a
man
Than
of
his
outward
show
,
which
,
God
He
knows
,
Seldom
or
never
jumpeth
with
the
heart
.
Those
uncles
which
you
want
were
dangerous
.
Your
Grace
attended
to
their
sugared
words
But
looked
not
on
the
poison
of
their
hearts
.
God
keep
you
from
them
,
and
from
such
false
friends
.
Commend
me
to
Lord
William
.
Tell
him
,
Catesby
,
His
ancient
knot
of
dangerous
adversaries
Tomorrow
are
let
blood
at
Pomfret
Castle
,
And
bid
my
lord
,
for
joy
of
this
good
news
,
Give
Mistress
Shore
one
gentle
kiss
the
more
.
Chop
off
his
head
.
Something
we
will
determine
.
And
look
when
I
am
king
,
claim
thou
of
me
The
earldom
of
Hereford
,
and
all
the
movables
Whereof
the
King
my
brother
was
possessed
.
And
look
to
have
it
yielded
with
all
kindness
.
Come
,
let
us
sup
betimes
,
that
afterwards
We
may
digest
our
complots
in
some
form
.
But
I
shall
laugh
at
this
a
twelve-month
hence
,
That
they
which
brought
me
in
my
master’s
hate
,
I
live
to
look
upon
their
tragedy
.
Well
,
Catesby
,
ere
a
fortnight
make
me
older
I’ll
send
some
packing
that
yet
think
not
on
’t
.
’Tis
a
vile
thing
to
die
,
my
gracious
lord
,
When
men
are
unprepared
and
look
not
for
it
.
God
bless
the
Prince
from
all
the
pack
of
you
!
A
knot
you
are
of
damnèd
bloodsuckers
.
O
Pomfret
,
Pomfret
!
O
thou
bloody
prison
,
Fatal
and
ominous
to
noble
peers
!
Within
the
guilty
closure
of
thy
walls
,
Richard
the
Second
here
was
hacked
to
death
,
And
,
for
more
slander
to
thy
dismal
seat
,
We
give
to
thee
our
guiltless
blood
to
drink
.
Then
cursed
she
Richard
.
Then
cursed
she
Buckingham
.
Then
cursed
she
Hastings
.
O
,
remember
,
God
,
To
hear
her
prayer
for
them
as
now
for
us
!
And
for
my
sister
and
her
princely
sons
,
Be
satisfied
,
dear
God
,
with
our
true
blood
,
Which
,
as
thou
know’st
,
unjustly
must
be
spilt
.
His
Grace
looks
cheerfully
and
smooth
this
morning
.
There’s
some
conceit
or
other
likes
him
well
When
that
he
bids
good
morrow
with
such
spirit
.
I
think
there’s
never
a
man
in
Christendom
Can
lesser
hide
his
love
or
hate
than
he
,
For
by
his
face
straight
shall
you
know
his
heart
.
Marry
,
that
with
no
man
here
he
is
offended
,
For
were
he
,
he
had
shown
it
in
his
looks
.
Then
be
your
eyes
the
witness
of
their
evil
.
Look
how
I
am
bewitched
!
Behold
mine
arm
Is
like
a
blasted
sapling
withered
up
;
And
this
is
Edward’s
wife
,
that
monstrous
witch
,
Consorted
with
that
harlot
,
strumpet
Shore
,
That
by
their
witchcraft
thus
have
markèd
me
.
If
?
Thou
protector
of
this
damnèd
strumpet
,
Talk’st
thou
to
me
of
ifs
?
Thou
art
a
traitor
.
—
Off
with
his
head
.
Now
by
Saint
Paul
I
swear
I
will
not
dine
until
I
see
the
same
.
—
Lovell
and
Ratcliffe
,
look
that
it
be
done
.
—
The
rest
that
love
me
,
rise
and
follow
me
.
Woe
,
woe
for
England
!
Not
a
whit
for
me
,
For
I
,
too
fond
,
might
have
prevented
this
.
Stanley
did
dream
the
boar
did
raze
his
helm
,
And
I
did
scorn
it
and
disdain
to
fly
.
Three
times
today
my
foot-cloth
horse
did
stumble
,
And
started
when
he
looked
upon
the
Tower
,
As
loath
to
bear
me
to
the
slaughterhouse
.
O
,
now
I
need
the
priest
that
spake
to
me
!
I
now
repent
I
told
the
pursuivant
,
As
too
triumphing
,
how
mine
enemies
Today
at
Pomfret
bloodily
were
butchered
,
And
I
myself
secure
in
grace
and
favor
.
O
Margaret
,
Margaret
,
now
thy
heavy
curse
Is
lighted
on
poor
Hastings’
wretched
head
.
O
momentary
grace
of
mortal
men
,
Which
we
more
hunt
for
than
the
grace
of
God
!
Who
builds
his
hope
in
air
of
your
good
looks
Lives
like
a
drunken
sailor
on
a
mast
,
Ready
with
every
nod
to
tumble
down
Into
the
fatal
bowels
of
the
deep
.
O
bloody
Richard
!
Miserable
England
,
I
prophesy
the
fearfull’st
time
to
thee
That
ever
wretched
age
hath
looked
upon
.
—
Come
,
lead
me
to
the
block
.
Bear
him
my
head
.
They
smile
at
me
who
shortly
shall
be
dead
.
Tut
,
I
can
counterfeit
the
deep
tragedian
,
Speak
,
and
look
back
,
and
pry
on
every
side
,
Tremble
and
start
at
wagging
of
a
straw
,
Intending
deep
suspicion
.
Ghastly
looks
Are
at
my
service
,
like
enforcèd
smiles
,
And
both
are
ready
,
in
their
offices
,
At
any
time
to
grace
my
stratagems
.
But
what
,
is
Catesby
gone
?
Look to the drawbridge there !
Catesby , o’erlook the walls .
Look
back
!
Defend
thee
!
Here
are
enemies
.
I
never
looked
for
better
at
his
hands
After
he
once
fell
in
with
Mistress
Shore
.
Yet
had
we
not
determined
he
should
die
Until
your
Lordship
came
to
see
his
end
(
Which
now
the
loving
haste
of
these
our
friends
,
Something
against
our
meanings
,
have
prevented
)
,
Because
,
my
lord
,
I
would
have
had
you
heard
The
traitor
speak
and
timorously
confess
The
manner
and
the
purpose
of
his
treasons
,
That
you
might
well
have
signified
the
same
Unto
the
citizens
,
who
haply
may
Misconster
us
in
him
,
and
wail
his
death
.
I
go
;
and
towards
three
or
four
o’clock
Look
for
the
news
that
the
Guildhall
affords
.
No
.
So
God
help
me
,
they
spake
not
a
word
But
,
like
dumb
statues
or
breathing
stones
,
Stared
each
on
other
and
looked
deadly
pale
;
Which
when
I
saw
,
I
reprehended
them
And
asked
the
Mayor
what
meant
this
willful
silence
.
His
answer
was
,
the
people
were
not
used
To
be
spoke
to
but
by
the
Recorder
.
Then
he
was
urged
to
tell
my
tale
again
:
Thus
saith
the
Duke
.
Thus
hath
the
Duke
inferred
—
But
nothing
spoke
in
warrant
from
himself
.
When
he
had
done
,
some
followers
of
mine
own
,
At
lower
end
of
the
hall
,
hurled
up
their
caps
,
And
some
ten
voices
cried
God
save
King
Richard
!
And
thus
I
took
the
vantage
of
those
few
.
Thanks
,
gentle
citizens
and
friends
,
quoth
I
.
This
general
applause
and
cheerful
shout
Argues
your
wisdoms
and
your
love
to
Richard
—
And
even
here
brake
off
and
came
away
.
The
Mayor
is
here
at
hand
.
Intend
some
fear
;
Be
not
you
spoke
with
but
by
mighty
suit
.
And
look
you
get
a
prayer
book
in
your
hand
And
stand
between
two
churchmen
,
good
my
lord
,
For
on
that
ground
I’ll
make
a
holy
descant
.
And
be
not
easily
won
to
our
requests
.
Play
the
maid’s
part
:
still
answer
nay
,
and
take
it
.
Know
,
then
,
it
is
your
fault
that
you
resign
The
supreme
seat
,
the
throne
majestical
,
The
sceptered
office
of
your
ancestors
,
Your
state
of
fortune
,
and
your
due
of
birth
,
The
lineal
glory
of
your
royal
house
,
To
the
corruption
of
a
blemished
stock
,
Whiles
in
the
mildness
of
your
sleepy
thoughts
,
Which
here
we
waken
to
our
country’s
good
,
The
noble
isle
doth
want
her
proper
limbs
—
Her
face
defaced
with
scars
of
infamy
,
Her
royal
stock
graft
with
ignoble
plants
,
And
almost
shouldered
in
the
swallowing
gulf
Of
dark
forgetfulness
and
deep
oblivion
;
Which
to
recure
,
we
heartily
solicit
Your
gracious
self
to
take
on
you
the
charge
And
kingly
government
of
this
your
land
,
Not
as
Protector
,
steward
,
substitute
,
Or
lowly
factor
for
another’s
gain
,
But
as
successively
,
from
blood
to
blood
,
Your
right
of
birth
,
your
empery
,
your
own
.
For
this
,
consorted
with
the
citizens
,
Your
very
worshipful
and
loving
friends
,
And
by
their
vehement
instigation
,
In
this
just
cause
come
I
to
move
your
Grace
.
Let
me
but
meet
you
ladies
one
hour
hence
,
And
I’ll
salute
your
Grace
of
York
as
mother
And
reverend
looker-on
of
two
fair
queens
.
Come
,
madam
,
you
must
straight
to
Westminster
,
There
to
be
crownèd
Richard’s
royal
queen
.
No
?
Why
?
When
he
that
is
my
husband
now
Came
to
me
as
I
followed
Henry’s
corse
,
When
scarce
the
blood
was
well
washed
from
his
hands
Which
issued
from
my
other
angel
husband
And
that
dear
saint
which
then
I
weeping
followed
—
O
,
when
,
I
say
,
I
looked
on
Richard’s
face
,
This
was
my
wish
:
be
thou
,
quoth
I
,
accursed
For
making
me
,
so
young
,
so
old
a
widow
;
And
,
when
thou
wedd’st
,
let
sorrow
haunt
thy
bed
;
And
be
thy
wife
,
if
any
be
so
mad
,
More
miserable
by
the
life
of
thee
Than
thou
hast
made
me
by
my
dear
lord’s
death
.
Lo
,
ere
I
can
repeat
this
curse
again
,
Within
so
small
a
time
my
woman’s
heart
Grossly
grew
captive
to
his
honey
words
And
proved
the
subject
of
mine
own
soul’s
curse
,
Which
hitherto
hath
held
my
eyes
from
rest
,
For
never
yet
one
hour
in
his
bed
Did
I
enjoy
the
golden
dew
of
sleep
,
But
with
his
timorous
dreams
was
still
awaked
.
Besides
,
he
hates
me
for
my
father
Warwick
,
And
will
,
no
doubt
,
shortly
be
rid
of
me
.
Stay
,
yet
look
back
with
me
unto
the
Tower
.
—
Pity
,
you
ancient
stones
,
those
tender
babes
Whom
envy
hath
immured
within
your
walls
—
Rough
cradle
for
such
little
pretty
ones
.
Rude
ragged
nurse
,
old
sullen
playfellow
For
tender
princes
,
use
my
babies
well
.
So
foolish
sorrows
bids
your
stones
farewell
.
I
will
converse
with
iron-witted
fools
And
unrespective
boys
.
None
are
for
me
That
look
into
me
with
considerate
eyes
.
High-reaching
Buckingham
grows
circumspect
.
—
Boy
!
Come
hither
,
Catesby
.
Rumor
it
abroad
That
Anne
my
wife
is
very
grievous
sick
.
I
will
take
order
for
her
keeping
close
.
Inquire
me
out
some
mean
poor
gentleman
,
Whom
I
will
marry
straight
to
Clarence’
daughter
.
The
boy
is
foolish
,
and
I
fear
not
him
.
Look
how
thou
dream’st
!
I
say
again
,
give
out
That
Anne
my
queen
is
sick
and
like
to
die
.
About
it
,
for
it
stands
me
much
upon
To
stop
all
hopes
whose
growth
may
damage
me
.
I
must
be
married
to
my
brother’s
daughter
,
Or
else
my
kingdom
stands
on
brittle
glass
.
Murder
her
brothers
,
and
then
marry
her
—
Uncertain
way
of
gain
.
But
I
am
in
So
far
in
blood
that
sin
will
pluck
on
sin
.
Tear-falling
pity
dwells
not
in
this
eye
.
Is
thy
name
Tyrrel
?
Stanley
,
he
is
your
wife’s
son
.
Well
,
look
unto
it
.
Stanley
,
look
to
your
wife
.
If
she
convey
Letters
to
Richmond
,
you
shall
answer
it
.
The
tyrannous
and
bloody
act
is
done
,
The
most
arch
deed
of
piteous
massacre
That
ever
yet
this
land
was
guilty
of
.
Dighton
and
Forrest
,
who
I
did
suborn
To
do
this
piece
of
ruthless
butchery
,
Albeit
they
were
fleshed
villains
,
bloody
dogs
,
Melted
with
tenderness
and
mild
compassion
,
Wept
like
two
children
in
their
deaths’
sad
story
.
O
thus
,
quoth
Dighton
,
lay
the
gentle
babes
.
Thus
,
thus
,
quoth
Forrest
,
girdling
one
another
Within
their
alabaster
innocent
arms
.
Their
lips
were
four
red
roses
on
a
stalk
,
And
in
their
summer
beauty
kissed
each
other
.
A
book
of
prayers
on
their
pillow
lay
,
Which
once
,
quoth
Forrest
,
almost
changed
my
mind
,
But
,
O
,
the
devil
—
There
the
villain
stopped
;
When
Dighton
thus
told
on
:
We
smotherèd
The
most
replenishèd
sweet
work
of
nature
That
from
the
prime
creation
e’er
she
framed
.
Hence
both
are
gone
with
conscience
and
remorse
;
They
could
not
speak
;
and
so
I
left
them
both
To
bear
this
tidings
to
the
bloody
king
.
And
here
he
comes
.
—
All
health
,
my
sovereign
lord
.
The
son
of
Clarence
have
I
pent
up
close
,
His
daughter
meanly
have
I
matched
in
marriage
,
The
sons
of
Edward
sleep
in
Abraham’s
bosom
,
And
Anne
my
wife
hath
bid
this
world
goodnight
.
Now
,
for
I
know
the
Breton
Richmond
aims
At
young
Elizabeth
,
my
brother’s
daughter
,
And
by
that
knot
looks
proudly
on
the
crown
,
To
her
go
I
,
a
jolly
thriving
wooer
.
Dead
life
,
blind
sight
,
poor
mortal
living
ghost
,
Woe’s
scene
,
world’s
shame
,
grave’s
due
by
life
usurped
,
Brief
abstract
and
record
of
tedious
days
,
Rest
thy
unrest
on
England’s
lawful
earth
,
Unlawfully
made
drunk
with
innocent
blood
.
Thou
hadst
a
Clarence
too
,
and
Richard
killed
him
.
From
forth
the
kennel
of
thy
womb
hath
crept
A
hellhound
that
doth
hunt
us
all
to
death
—
That
dog
,
that
had
his
teeth
before
his
eyes
,
To
worry
lambs
and
lap
their
gentle
blood
;
That
excellent
grand
tyrant
of
the
Earth
earth
,
That
reigns
in
gallèd
eyes
of
weeping
souls
;
That
foul
defacer
of
God’s
handiwork
Thy
womb
let
loose
to
chase
us
to
our
graves
.
O
upright
,
just
,
and
true-disposing
God
,
How
do
I
thank
thee
that
this
carnal
cur
Preys
on
the
issue
of
his
mother’s
body
And
makes
her
pew-fellow
with
others’
moan
!
No
,
by
the
Holy
Rood
,
thou
know’st
it
well
.
Thou
cam’st
on
Earth
earth
to
make
the
Earth
earth
my
hell
.
A
grievous
burden
was
thy
birth
to
me
;
Tetchy
and
wayward
was
thy
infancy
;
Thy
school
days
frightful
,
desp’rate
,
wild
,
and
furious
;
Thy
prime
of
manhood
daring
,
bold
,
and
venturous
;
Thy
age
confirmed
,
proud
,
subtle
,
sly
,
and
bloody
,
More
mild
,
but
yet
more
harmful
,
kind
in
hatred
.
What
comfortable
hour
canst
thou
name
,
That
ever
graced
me
with
thy
company
?
Either
thou
wilt
die
by
God’s
just
ordinance
Ere
from
this
war
thou
turn
a
conqueror
,
Or
I
with
grief
and
extreme
age
shall
perish
And
nevermore
behold
thy
face
again
.
Therefore
take
with
thee
my
most
grievous
curse
,
Which
in
the
day
of
battle
tire
thee
more
Than
all
the
complete
armor
that
thou
wear’st
.
My
prayers
on
the
adverse
party
fight
,
And
there
the
little
souls
of
Edward’s
children
Whisper
the
spirits
of
thine
enemies
And
promise
them
success
and
victory
.
Bloody
thou
art
;
bloody
will
be
thy
end
.
Shame
serves
thy
life
and
doth
thy
death
attend
.
I
have
no
more
sons
of
the
royal
blood
For
thee
to
slaughter
.
For
my
daughters
,
Richard
,
They
shall
be
praying
nuns
,
not
weeping
queens
,
And
therefore
level
not
to
hit
their
lives
.
Madam
,
so
thrive
I
in
my
enterprise
And
dangerous
success
of
bloody
wars
As
I
intend
more
good
to
you
and
yours
Than
ever
you
or
yours
by
me
were
harmed
!
Send
to
her
,
by
the
man
that
slew
her
brothers
,
A
pair
of
bleeding
hearts
;
thereon
engrave
Edward
and
York
.
Then
haply
will
she
weep
.
Therefore
present
to
her
—
as
sometime
Margaret
Did
to
thy
father
,
steeped
in
Rutland’s
blood
—
A
handkerchief
,
which
say
to
her
did
drain
The
purple
sap
from
her
sweet
brother’s
body
,
And
bid
her
wipe
her
weeping
eyes
withal
.
If
this
inducement
move
her
not
to
love
,
Send
her
a
letter
of
thy
noble
deeds
;
Tell
her
thou
mad’st
away
her
uncle
Clarence
,
Her
uncle
Rivers
,
ay
,
and
for
her
sake
Mad’st
quick
conveyance
with
her
good
aunt
Anne
.
Nay
,
then
indeed
she
cannot
choose
but
hate
thee
,
Having
bought
love
with
such
a
bloody
spoil
.
Look
what
is
done
cannot
be
now
amended
.
Men
shall
deal
unadvisedly
sometimes
,
Which
after-hours
gives
leisure
to
repent
.
If
I
did
take
the
kingdom
from
your
sons
,
To
make
amends
I’ll
give
it
to
your
daughter
.
If
I
have
killed
the
issue
of
your
womb
,
To
quicken
your
increase
I
will
beget
Mine
issue
of
your
blood
upon
your
daughter
.
A
grandam’s
name
is
little
less
in
love
Than
is
the
doting
title
of
a
mother
.
They
are
as
children
but
one
step
below
,
Even
of
your
metal
,
of
your
very
blood
,
Of
all
one
pain
,
save
for
a
night
of
groans
Endured
of
her
for
whom
you
bid
like
sorrow
.
Your
children
were
vexation
to
your
youth
,
But
mine
shall
be
a
comfort
to
your
age
.
The
loss
you
have
is
but
a
son
being
king
,
And
by
that
loss
your
daughter
is
made
queen
.
I
cannot
make
you
what
amends
I
would
;
Therefore
accept
such
kindness
as
I
can
.
Dorset
your
son
,
that
with
a
fearful
soul
Leads
discontented
steps
in
foreign
soil
,
This
fair
alliance
quickly
shall
call
home
To
high
promotions
and
great
dignity
.
The
king
that
calls
your
beauteous
daughter
wife
Familiarly
shall
call
thy
Dorset
brother
.
Again
shall
you
be
mother
to
a
king
,
And
all
the
ruins
of
distressful
times
Repaired
with
double
riches
of
content
.
What
,
we
have
many
goodly
days
to
see
!
The
liquid
drops
of
tears
that
you
have
shed
Shall
come
again
,
transformed
to
orient
pearl
,
Advantaging
their
love
with
interest
Of
ten
times
double
gain
of
happiness
.
Go
then
,
my
mother
;
to
thy
daughter
go
.
Make
bold
her
bashful
years
with
your
experience
;
Prepare
her
ears
to
hear
a
wooer’s
tale
;
Put
in
her
tender
heart
th’
aspiring
flame
Of
golden
sovereignty
;
acquaint
the
Princess
With
the
sweet
silent
hours
of
marriage
joys
;
And
when
this
arm
of
mine
hath
chastisèd
The
petty
rebel
,
dull-brained
Buckingham
,
Bound
with
triumphant
garlands
will
I
come
And
lead
thy
daughter
to
a
conqueror’s
bed
,
To
whom
I
will
retail
my
conquest
won
,
And
she
shall
be
sole
victoress
,
Caesar’s
Caesar
.
Go
then
and
muster
men
,
but
leave
behind
Your
son
George
Stanley
.
Look
your
heart
be
firm
,
Or
else
his
head’s
assurance
is
but
frail
.
The
news
I
have
to
tell
your
Majesty
Is
that
by
sudden
floods
and
fall
of
waters
Buckingham’s
army
is
dispersed
and
scattered
,
And
he
himself
wandered
away
alone
,
No
man
knows
whither
.
Fellows
in
arms
,
and
my
most
loving
friends
,
Bruised
underneath
the
yoke
of
tyranny
,
Thus
far
into
the
bowels
of
the
land
Have
we
marched
on
without
impediment
,
And
here
receive
we
from
our
father
Stanley
Lines
of
fair
comfort
and
encouragement
.
The
wretched
,
bloody
,
and
usurping
boar
,
That
spoiled
your
summer
fields
and
fruitful
vines
,
Swills
your
warm
blood
like
wash
,
and
makes
his
trough
In
your
embowelled
bosoms
—
this
foul
swine
Is
now
even
in
the
center
of
this
isle
,
Near
to
the
town
of
Leicester
,
as
we
learn
.
From
Tamworth
thither
is
but
one
day’s
march
.
In
God’s
name
,
cheerly
on
,
courageous
friends
,
To
reap
the
harvest
of
perpetual
peace
By
this
one
bloody
trial
of
sharp
war
.
Here
pitch
our
tent
,
even
here
in
Bosworth
field
.
—
My
lord
Lord
of
Surrey
,
why
look
you
so
sad
?
My
heart
is
ten
times
lighter
than
my
looks
.
Send
out
a
pursuivant-at-arms
To
Stanley’s
regiment
.
Bid
him
bring
his
power
Before
sunrising
,
lest
his
son
George
fall
Into
the
blind
cave
of
eternal
night
.
Fill
me
a
bowl
of
wine
.
Give
me
a
watch
.
Saddle
white
Surrey
for
the
field
tomorrow
.
Look
that
my
staves
be
sound
and
not
too
heavy
.
—
Ratcliffe
.
I
,
by
attorney
,
bless
thee
from
thy
mother
,
Who
prays
continually
for
Richmond’s
good
.
So
much
for
that
.
The
silent
hours
steal
on
,
And
flaky
darkness
breaks
within
the
east
.
In
brief
,
for
so
the
season
bids
us
be
,
Prepare
thy
battle
early
in
the
morning
,
And
put
thy
fortune
to
the
arbitrament
Of
bloody
strokes
and
mortal-staring
war
.
I
,
as
I
may
—
that
which
I
would
I
cannot
—
With
best
advantage
will
deceive
the
time
And
aid
thee
in
this
doubtful
shock
of
arms
.
But
on
thy
side
I
may
not
be
too
forward
,
Lest
,
being
seen
,
thy
brother
,
tender
George
,
Be
executed
in
his
father’s
sight
.
Farewell
.
The
leisure
and
the
fearful
time
Cuts
off
the
ceremonious
vows
of
love
And
ample
interchange
of
sweet
discourse
,
Which
so-long-sundered
friends
should
dwell
upon
.
God
give
us
leisure
for
these
rites
of
love
!
Once
more
,
adieu
.
Be
valiant
and
speed
well
.
Good
lords
,
conduct
him
to
his
regiment
.
I’ll
strive
with
troubled
thoughts
to
take
a
nap
,
Lest
leaden
slumber
peise
me
down
tomorrow
When
I
should
mount
with
wings
of
victory
.
Once
more
,
good
night
,
kind
lords
and
gentlemen
.
O
Thou
,
whose
captain
I
account
myself
,
Look
on
my
forces
with
a
gracious
eye
.
Put
in
their
hands
Thy
bruising
irons
of
wrath
,
That
they
may
crush
down
with
a
heavy
fall
The
usurping
helmets
of
our
adversaries
.
Make
us
Thy
ministers
of
chastisement
,
That
we
may
praise
Thee
in
the
victory
.
To
Thee
I
do
commend
my
watchful
soul
,
Ere
I
let
fall
the
windows
of
mine
eyes
.
Sleeping
and
waking
,
O
,
defend
me
still
!
Bloody
and
guilty
,
guiltily
awake
,
And
in
a
bloody
battle
end
thy
days
.
Think
on
Lord
Hastings
.
Despair
and
die
!
Quiet
,
untroubled
soul
,
awake
,
awake
.
Arm
,
fight
,
and
conquer
for
fair
England’s
sake
.
The
first
was
I
that
helped
thee
to
the
crown
;
The
last
was
I
that
felt
thy
tyranny
.
O
,
in
the
battle
think
on
Buckingham
,
And
die
in
terror
of
thy
guiltiness
.
Dream
on
,
dream
on
,
of
bloody
deeds
and
death
.
Fainting
,
despair
;
despairing
,
yield
thy
breath
.
I
died
for
hope
ere
I
could
lend
thee
aid
,
But
cheer
thy
heart
,
and
be
thou
not
dismayed
.
God
and
good
angels
fight
on
Richmond’s
side
,
And
Richard
fall
in
height
of
all
his
pride
.
Why
,
then
’tis
time
to
arm
and
give
direction
.
His
oration
to
his
soldiers
.
More
than
I
have
said
,
loving
countrymen
,
The
leisure
and
enforcement
of
the
time
Forbids
to
dwell
upon
.
Yet
remember
this
:
God
,
and
our
good
cause
,
fight
upon
our
side
.
The
prayers
of
holy
saints
and
wrongèd
souls
,
Like
high-reared
bulwarks
,
stand
before
our
faces
.
Richard
except
,
those
whom
we
fight
against
Had
rather
have
us
win
than
him
they
follow
.
For
what
is
he
they
follow
?
Truly
,
gentlemen
,
A
bloody
tyrant
and
a
homicide
;
One
raised
in
blood
,
and
one
in
blood
established
;
One
that
made
means
to
come
by
what
he
hath
,
And
slaughtered
those
that
were
the
means
to
help
him
;
A
base
foul
stone
,
made
precious
by
the
foil
Of
England’s
chair
,
where
he
is
falsely
set
;
One
that
hath
ever
been
God’s
enemy
.
Then
if
you
fight
against
God’s
enemy
,
God
will
,
in
justice
,
ward
you
as
his
soldiers
.
If
you
do
sweat
to
put
a
tyrant
down
,
You
sleep
in
peace
,
the
tyrant
being
slain
.
If
you
do
fight
against
your
country’s
foes
,
Your
country’s
fat
shall
pay
your
pains
the
hire
.
If
you
do
fight
in
safeguard
of
your
wives
,
Your
wives
shall
welcome
home
the
conquerors
.
If
you
do
free
your
children
from
the
sword
,
Your
children’s
children
quits
it
in
your
age
.
Then
,
in
the
name
of
God
and
all
these
rights
,
Advance
your
standards
;
draw
your
willing
swords
.
For
me
,
the
ransom
of
my
bold
attempt
Shall
be
this
cold
corpse
on
the
Earth’s
earth’s
cold
face
,
But
if
I
thrive
,
the
gain
of
my
attempt
The
least
of
you
shall
share
his
part
thereof
.
Sound
drums
and
trumpets
boldly
and
cheerfully
.
God
,
and
Saint
George
,
Richmond
,
and
victory
!
He
was
in
the
right
,
and
so
indeed
it
is
.
Tell
the
clock
there
.
Give
me
a
calendar
.
Who
saw
the
sun
today
?
The
sun
will
not
be
seen
today
.
The
sky
doth
frown
and
lour
upon
our
army
.
I
would
these
dewy
tears
were
from
the
ground
.
Not
shine
today
?
Why
,
what
is
that
to
me
More
than
to
Richmond
,
for
the
selfsame
heaven
That
frowns
on
me
looks
sadly
upon
him
.
Jockey
of
Norfolk
,
be
not
so
bold
.
For
Dickon
thy
master
is
bought
and
sold
.
A
thing
devisèd
by
the
enemy
.
—
Go
,
gentlemen
,
every
man
unto
his
charge
.
Let
not
our
babbling
dreams
affright
our
souls
.
Conscience
is
but
a
word
that
cowards
use
,
Devised
at
first
to
keep
the
strong
in
awe
.
Our
strong
arms
be
our
conscience
,
swords
our
law
.
March
on
.
Join
bravely
.
Let
us
to
it
pell
mell
,
If
not
to
heaven
,
then
hand
in
hand
to
hell
.
His
oration
to
his
army
.
What
shall
I
say
more
than
I
have
inferred
?
Remember
whom
you
are
to
cope
withal
,
A
sort
of
vagabonds
,
rascals
,
and
runaways
,
A
scum
of
Bretons
and
base
lackey
peasants
,
Whom
their
o’ercloyèd
country
vomits
forth
To
desperate
adventures
and
assured
destruction
.
You
sleeping
safe
,
they
bring
to
you
unrest
;
You
having
lands
and
blessed
with
beauteous
wives
,
They
would
restrain
the
one
,
distain
the
other
.
And
who
doth
lead
them
but
a
paltry
fellow
,
Long
kept
in
Brittany
at
our
mother’s
cost
,
A
milksop
,
one
that
never
in
his
life
Felt
so
much
cold
as
overshoes
in
snow
?
Let’s
whip
these
stragglers
o’er
the
seas
again
,
Lash
hence
these
overweening
rags
of
France
,
These
famished
beggars
weary
of
their
lives
,
Who
,
but
for
dreaming
on
this
fond
exploit
,
For
want
of
means
,
poor
rats
,
had
hanged
themselves
.
If
we
be
conquered
,
let
men
conquer
us
,
And
not
these
bastard
Bretons
,
whom
our
fathers
Have
in
their
own
land
beaten
,
bobbed
,
and
thumped
,
And
in
record
left
them
the
heirs
of
shame
.
Shall
these
enjoy
our
lands
,
lie
with
our
wives
,
Ravish
our
daughters
?
Hark
,
I
hear
their
drum
.
Fight
,
gentlemen
of
England
.
—
Fight
,
bold
yeomen
.
—
Draw
,
archers
;
draw
your
arrows
to
the
head
.
—
Spur
your
proud
horses
hard
,
and
ride
in
blood
.
Amaze
the
welkin
with
your
broken
staves
.
—
What
says
Lord
Stanley
?
Will
he
bring
his
power
?
God
and
your
arms
be
praised
,
victorious
friends
!
The
day
is
ours
;
the
bloody
dog
is
dead
.
Courageous
Richmond
,
well
hast
thou
acquit
thee
.
Lo
,
here
this
long-usurpèd
royalty
From
the
dead
temples
of
this
bloody
wretch
Have
I
plucked
off
,
to
grace
thy
brows
withal
.
Wear
it
,
enjoy
it
,
and
make
much
of
it
.
Inter
their
bodies
as
becomes
their
births
.
Proclaim
a
pardon
to
the
soldiers
fled
That
in
submission
will
return
to
us
.
And
then
,
as
we
have
ta’en
the
sacrament
,
We
will
unite
the
white
rose
and
the
red
;
Smile
heaven
upon
this
fair
conjunction
,
That
long
have
frowned
upon
their
enmity
.
What
traitor
hears
me
and
says
not
Amen
?
England
hath
long
been
mad
and
scarred
herself
:
The
brother
blindly
shed
the
brother’s
blood
;
The
father
rashly
slaughtered
his
own
son
;
The
son
,
compelled
,
been
butcher
to
the
sire
.
All
this
divided
York
and
Lancaster
,
Divided
,
in
their
dire
division
.
O
,
now
let
Richmond
and
Elizabeth
,
The
true
succeeders
of
each
royal
house
,
By
God’s
fair
ordinance
conjoin
together
,
And
let
their
heirs
,
God
,
if
Thy
will
be
so
,
Enrich
the
time
to
come
with
smooth-faced
peace
,
With
smiling
plenty
and
fair
prosperous
days
.
Abate
the
edge
of
traitors
,
gracious
Lord
,
That
would
reduce
these
bloody
days
again
And
make
poor
England
weep
in
streams
of
blood
.
Let
them
not
live
to
taste
this
land’s
increase
,
That
would
with
treason
wound
this
fair
land’s
peace
.
Now
civil
wounds
are
stopped
,
peace
lives
again
.
That
she
may
long
live
here
,
God
say
amen
.
Two
households
,
both
alike
in
dignity
(
In
fair
Verona
,
where
we
lay
our
scene
)
,
From
ancient
grudge
break
to
new
mutiny
,
Where
civil
blood
makes
civil
hands
unclean
.
From
forth
the
fatal
loins
of
these
two
foes
A
pair
of
star-crossed
lovers
take
their
life
;
Whose
misadventured
piteous
overthrows
Doth
with
their
death
bury
their
parents’
strife
.
The
fearful
passage
of
their
death-marked
love
And
the
continuance
of
their
parents’
rage
,
Which
,
but
their
children’s
end
,
naught
could
remove
,
Is
now
the
two
hours’
traffic
of
our
stage
;
The
which
,
if
you
with
patient
ears
attend
,
What
here
shall
miss
,
our
toil
shall
strive
to
mend
.
What
,
art
thou
drawn
among
these
heartless
hinds
?
Turn
thee
,
Benvolio
;
look
upon
thy
death
.
Rebellious
subjects
,
enemies
to
peace
,
Profaners
of
this
neighbor-stainèd
steel
—
Will
they
not
hear
?
—
What
ho
!
You
men
,
you
beasts
,
That
quench
the
fire
of
your
pernicious
rage
With
purple
fountains
issuing
from
your
veins
:
On
pain
of
torture
,
from
those
bloody
hands
Throw
your
mistempered
weapons
to
the
ground
,
And
hear
the
sentence
of
your
movèd
prince
.
Three
civil
brawls
bred
of
an
airy
word
By
thee
,
old
Capulet
,
and
Montague
,
Have
thrice
disturbed
the
quiet
of
our
streets
And
made
Verona’s
ancient
citizens
Cast
by
their
grave-beseeming
ornaments
To
wield
old
partisans
in
hands
as
old
,
Cankered
with
peace
,
to
part
your
cankered
hate
.
If
ever
you
disturb
our
streets
again
,
Your
lives
shall
pay
the
forfeit
of
the
peace
.
For
this
time
all
the
rest
depart
away
.
You
,
Capulet
,
shall
go
along
with
me
,
And
,
Montague
,
come
you
this
afternoon
To
know
our
farther
pleasure
in
this
case
,
To
old
Free-town
,
our
common
judgment-place
.
Once
more
,
on
pain
of
death
,
all
men
depart
.
And
too
soon
marred
are
those
so
early
made
.
Earth
hath
swallowed
all
my
hopes
but
she
;
She’s
the
hopeful
lady
of
my
earth
.
But
woo
her
,
gentle
Paris
,
get
her
heart
;
My
will
to
her
consent
is
but
a
part
.
And
,
she
agreed
,
within
her
scope
of
choice
Lies
my
consent
and
fair
according
voice
.
This
night
I
hold
an
old
accustomed
feast
,
Whereto
I
have
invited
many
a
guest
Such
as
I
love
;
and
you
among
the
store
,
One
more
,
most
welcome
,
makes
my
number
more
.
At
my
poor
house
look
to
behold
this
night
Earth-treading
stars
that
make
dark
heaven
light
.
Such
comfort
as
do
lusty
young
men
feel
When
well-appareled
April
on
the
heel
Of
limping
winter
treads
,
even
such
delight
Among
fresh
fennel
buds
shall
you
this
night
Inherit
at
my
house
.
Hear
all
,
all
see
,
And
like
her
most
whose
merit
most
shall
be
;
Which
,
on
more
view
of
many
,
mine
,
being
one
,
May
stand
in
number
,
though
in
reck’ning
none
.
Come
go
with
me
.
Go
,
sirrah
,
trudge
about
Through
fair
Verona
,
find
those
persons
out
Whose
names
are
written
there
,
and
to
them
say
My
house
and
welcome
on
their
pleasure
stay
.
I’ll
look
to
like
,
if
looking
liking
move
.
But
no
more
deep
will
I
endart
mine
eye
Than
your
consent
gives
strength
to
make
it
fly
.
A
torch
for
me
.
Let
wantons
light
of
heart
Tickle
the
senseless
rushes
with
their
heels
,
For
I
am
proverbed
with
a
grandsire
phrase
:
I’ll
be
a
candle
holder
and
look
on
;
The
game
was
ne’er
so
fair
,
and
I
am
done
.
Away
with
the
joint
stools
,
remove
the
court
cupboard
,
look
to
the
plate
.
—
Good
thou
,
save
me
a
piece
of
marchpane
,
and
,
as
thou
loves
me
,
let
the
porter
let
in
Susan
Grindstone
and
Nell
.
—
Anthony
and
Potpan
!
You
are
looked
for
and
called
for
,
asked
for
and
sought
for
,
in
the
great
chamber
.
Welcome
,
gentlemen
.
Ladies
that
have
their
toes
Unplagued
with
corns
will
walk
a
bout
with
you
.
—
Ah
,
my
mistresses
,
which
of
you
all
Will
now
deny
to
dance
?
She
that
makes
dainty
,
She
,
I’ll
swear
,
hath
corns
.
Am
I
come
near
you
now
?
—
Welcome
,
gentlemen
.
I
have
seen
the
day
That
I
have
worn
a
visor
and
could
tell
A
whispering
tale
in
a
fair
lady’s
ear
,
Such
as
would
please
.
’Tis
gone
,
’tis
gone
,
’tis
gone
.
You
are
welcome
,
gentlemen
.
—
Come
,
musicians
,
play
.
A
hall
,
a
hall
,
give
room
!
—
And
foot
it
,
girls
.
—
More
light
,
you
knaves
,
and
turn
the
tables
up
,
And
quench
the
fire
;
the
room
is
grown
too
hot
.
—
Ah
,
sirrah
,
this
unlooked-for
sport
comes
well
.
—
Nay
,
sit
,
nay
,
sit
,
good
cousin
Capulet
,
For
you
and
I
are
past
our
dancing
days
.
How
long
is
’t
now
since
last
yourself
and
I
Were
in
a
mask
?
Now
old
desire
doth
in
his
deathbed
lie
,
And
young
affection
gapes
to
be
his
heir
.
That
fair
for
which
love
groaned
for
and
would
die
,
With
tender
Juliet
matched
,
is
now
not
fair
.
Now
Romeo
is
beloved
and
loves
again
,
Alike
bewitchèd
by
the
charm
of
looks
,
But
to
his
foe
supposed
he
must
complain
,
And
she
steal
love’s
sweet
bait
from
fearful
hooks
.
Being
held
a
foe
,
he
may
not
have
access
To
breathe
such
vows
as
lovers
use
to
swear
,
And
she
as
much
in
love
,
her
means
much
less
To
meet
her
new
belovèd
anywhere
.
But
passion
lends
them
power
,
time
means
,
to
meet
,
Temp’ring
extremities
with
extreme
sweet
.
Alack
,
there
lies
more
peril
in
thine
eye
Than
twenty
of
their
swords
.
Look
thou
but
sweet
,
And
I
am
proof
against
their
enmity
.
A
thousand
times
the
worse
to
want
thy
light
.
Love
goes
toward
love
as
schoolboys
from
their
books
,
But
love
from
love
,
toward
school
with
heavy
looks
.
Well
,
sir
,
my
mistress
is
the
sweetest
lady
.
Lord
,
Lord
,
when
’twas
a
little
prating
thing
—
O
,
there
is
a
nobleman
in
town
,
one
Paris
,
that
would
fain
lay
knife
aboard
,
but
she
,
good
soul
,
had
as
lief
see
a
toad
,
a
very
toad
,
as
see
him
.
I
anger
her
sometimes
and
tell
her
that
Paris
is
the
properer
man
,
but
I’ll
warrant
you
,
when
I
say
so
,
she
looks
as
pale
as
any
clout
in
the
versal
world
.
Doth
not
rosemary
and
Romeo
begin
both
with
a
letter
?
The
clock
struck
nine
when
I
did
send
the
Nurse
.
In
half
an
hour
she
promised
to
return
.
Perchance
she
cannot
meet
him
.
That’s
not
so
.
O
,
she
is
lame
!
Love’s
heralds
should
be
thoughts
,
Which
ten
times
faster
glides
than
the
sun’s
beams
,
Driving
back
shadows
over
louring
hills
.
Therefore
do
nimble-pinioned
doves
draw
Love
,
And
therefore
hath
the
wind-swift
Cupid
wings
.
Now
is
the
sun
upon
the
highmost
hill
Of
this
day’s
journey
,
and
from
nine
till
twelve
Is
three
long
hours
,
yet
she
is
not
come
.
Had
she
affections
and
warm
youthful
blood
,
She
would
be
as
swift
in
motion
as
a
ball
;
My
words
would
bandy
her
to
my
sweet
love
,
And
his
to
me
.
But
old
folks
,
many
feign
as
they
were
dead
,
Unwieldy
,
slow
,
heavy
,
and
pale
as
lead
.
O
God
,
she
comes
!
—
O
,
honey
nurse
,
what
news
?
Hast
thou
met
with
him
?
Send
thy
man
away
.
Now
,
good
sweet
nurse
—
O
Lord
,
why
lookest
thou
sad
?
Though
news
be
sad
,
yet
tell
them
merrily
.
If
good
,
thou
shamest
the
music
of
sweet
news
By
playing
it
to
me
with
so
sour
a
face
.
Then
hie
you
hence
to
Friar
Lawrence’
cell
.
There
stays
a
husband
to
make
you
a
wife
.
Now
comes
the
wanton
blood
up
in
your
cheeks
;
They’ll
be
in
scarlet
straight
at
any
news
.
Hie
you
to
church
.
I
must
another
way
,
To
fetch
a
ladder
by
the
which
your
love
Must
climb
a
bird’s
nest
soon
when
it
is
dark
.
I
am
the
drudge
and
toil
in
your
delight
,
But
you
shall
bear
the
burden
soon
at
night
.
Go
.
I’ll
to
dinner
.
Hie
you
to
the
cell
.
I
pray
thee
,
good
Mercutio
,
let’s
retire
.
The
day
is
hot
,
the
Capels
are
abroad
,
And
if
we
meet
we
shall
not
’scape
a
brawl
,
For
now
,
these
hot
days
,
is
the
mad
blood
stirring
.
Consort
?
What
,
dost
thou
make
us
minstrels
?
An
thou
make
minstrels
of
us
,
look
to
hear
nothing
but
discords
.
Here’s
my
fiddlestick
;
here’s
that
shall
make
you
dance
.
Zounds
,
consort
!
Men’s
eyes
were
made
to
look
,
and
let
them
gaze
.
I
will
not
budge
for
no
man’s
pleasure
,
I
.
Tybalt
,
my
cousin
,
O
my
brother’s
child
!
O
prince
!
O
cousin
!
Husband
!
O
,
the
blood
is
spilled
Of
my
dear
kinsman
!
Prince
,
as
thou
art
true
,
For
blood
of
ours
,
shed
blood
of
Montague
.
O
cousin
,
cousin
!
Benvolio
,
who
began
this
bloody
fray
?
Tybalt
,
here
slain
,
whom
Romeo’s
hand
did
slay
—
Romeo
,
that
spoke
him
fair
,
bid
him
bethink
How
nice
the
quarrel
was
,
and
urged
withal
Your
high
displeasure
.
All
this
utterèd
With
gentle
breath
,
calm
look
,
knees
humbly
bowed
Could
not
take
truce
with
the
unruly
spleen
Of
Tybalt
,
deaf
to
peace
,
but
that
he
tilts
With
piercing
steel
at
bold
Mercutio’s
breast
,
Who
,
all
as
hot
,
turns
deadly
point
to
point
And
,
with
a
martial
scorn
,
with
one
hand
beats
Cold
death
aside
and
with
the
other
sends
It
back
to
Tybalt
,
whose
dexterity
Retorts
it
.
Romeo
he
cries
aloud
Hold
,
friends
!
Friends
,
part
!
and
swifter
than
his
tongue
His
agile
arm
beats
down
their
fatal
points
,
And
’twixt
them
rushes
;
underneath
whose
arm
An
envious
thrust
from
Tybalt
hit
the
life
Of
stout
Mercutio
,
and
then
Tybalt
fled
.
But
by
and
by
comes
back
to
Romeo
,
Who
had
but
newly
entertained
revenge
,
And
to
’t
they
go
like
lightning
,
for
ere
I
Could
draw
to
part
them
was
stout
Tybalt
slain
,
And
,
as
he
fell
,
did
Romeo
turn
and
fly
.
This
is
the
truth
,
or
let
Benvolio
die
.
Romeo
slew
him
;
he
slew
Mercutio
.
Who
now
the
price
of
his
dear
blood
doth
owe
?
And
for
that
offense
Immediately
we
do
exile
him
hence
.
I
have
an
interest
in
your
hearts’
proceeding
:
My
blood
for
your
rude
brawls
doth
lie
a-bleeding
.
But
I’ll
amerce
you
with
so
strong
a
fine
That
you
shall
all
repent
the
loss
of
mine
.
I
will
be
deaf
to
pleading
and
excuses
.
Nor
tears
nor
prayers
shall
purchase
out
abuses
.
Therefore
use
none
.
Let
Romeo
hence
in
haste
,
Else
,
when
he
is
found
,
that
hour
is
his
last
.
Bear
hence
this
body
and
attend
our
will
.
Mercy
but
murders
,
pardoning
those
that
kill
.
Gallop
apace
,
you
fiery-footed
steeds
,
Towards
Phoebus’
lodging
.
Such
a
wagoner
As
Phaëton
would
whip
you
to
the
west
And
bring
in
cloudy
night
immediately
.
Spread
thy
close
curtain
,
love-performing
night
,
That
runaways’
eyes
may
wink
,
and
Romeo
Leap
to
these
arms
,
untalked
of
and
unseen
.
Lovers
can
see
to
do
their
amorous
rites
By
their
own
beauties
,
or
,
if
love
be
blind
,
It
best
agrees
with
night
.
Come
,
civil
night
,
Thou
sober-suited
matron
all
in
black
,
And
learn
me
how
to
lose
a
winning
match
Played
for
a
pair
of
stainless
maidenhoods
.
Hood
my
unmanned
blood
,
bating
in
my
cheeks
,
With
thy
black
mantle
till
strange
love
grow
bold
,
Think
true
love
acted
simple
modesty
.
Come
,
night
.
Come
,
Romeo
.
Come
,
thou
day
in
night
,
For
thou
wilt
lie
upon
the
wings
of
night
Whiter
than
new
snow
upon
a
raven’s
back
.
Come
,
gentle
night
;
come
,
loving
black-browed
night
,
Give
me
my
Romeo
,
and
when
I
shall
die
,
Take
him
and
cut
him
out
in
little
stars
,
And
he
will
make
the
face
of
heaven
so
fine
That
all
the
world
will
be
in
love
with
night
And
pay
no
worship
to
the
garish
sun
.
O
,
I
have
bought
the
mansion
of
a
love
But
not
possessed
it
,
and
,
though
I
am
sold
,
Not
yet
enjoyed
.
So
tedious
is
this
day
As
is
the
night
before
some
festival
To
an
impatient
child
that
hath
new
robes
And
may
not
wear
them
.
O
,
here
comes
my
nurse
,
And
she
brings
news
,
and
every
tongue
that
speaks
But
Romeo’s
name
speaks
heavenly
eloquence
.
—
Now
,
nurse
,
what
news
?
What
hast
thou
there
?
The
cords
That
Romeo
bid
thee
fetch
?
I
saw
the
wound
.
I
saw
it
with
mine
eyes
(
God
save
the
mark
!
)
here
on
his
manly
breast
—
A
piteous
corse
,
a
bloody
piteous
corse
,
Pale
,
pale
as
ashes
,
all
bedaubed
in
blood
,
All
in
gore
blood
.
I
swoonèd
at
the
sight
.
O
break
,
my
heart
,
poor
bankrout
,
break
at
once
!
To
prison
,
eyes
;
ne’er
look
on
liberty
.
Vile
earth
to
earth
resign
;
end
motion
here
,
And
thou
and
Romeo
press
one
heavy
bier
.
O
God
,
did
Romeo’s
hand
shed
Tybalt’s
blood
?
Ha
,
banishment
?
Be
merciful
,
say
death
,
For
exile
hath
more
terror
in
his
look
,
Much
more
than
death
.
Do
not
say
banishment
.
’Tis
torture
and
not
mercy
.
Heaven
is
here
Where
Juliet
lives
,
and
every
cat
and
dog
And
little
mouse
,
every
unworthy
thing
,
Live
here
in
heaven
and
may
look
on
her
,
But
Romeo
may
not
.
More
validity
,
More
honorable
state
,
more
courtship
lives
In
carrion
flies
than
Romeo
.
They
may
seize
On
the
white
wonder
of
dear
Juliet’s
hand
And
steal
immortal
blessing
from
her
lips
,
Who
even
in
pure
and
vestal
modesty
Still
blush
,
as
thinking
their
own
kisses
sin
;
But
Romeo
may
not
;
he
is
banishèd
.
Flies
may
do
this
,
but
I
from
this
must
fly
.
They
are
free
men
,
but
I
am
banishèd
.
And
sayest
thou
yet
that
exile
is
not
death
?
Hadst
thou
no
poison
mixed
,
no
sharp-ground
knife
,
No
sudden
mean
of
death
,
though
ne’er
so
mean
,
But
banishèd
to
kill
me
?
Banishèd
?
O
friar
,
the
damnèd
use
that
word
in
hell
.
Howling
attends
it
.
How
hast
thou
the
heart
,
Being
a
divine
,
a
ghostly
confessor
,
A
sin
absolver
,
and
my
friend
professed
,
To
mangle
me
with
that
word
banishèd
?
Spakest
thou
of
Juliet
?
How
is
it
with
her
?
Doth
not
she
think
me
an
old
murderer
,
Now
I
have
stained
the
childhood
of
our
joy
With
blood
removed
but
little
from
her
own
?
Where
is
she
?
And
how
doth
she
?
And
what
says
My
concealed
lady
to
our
canceled
love
?
Hold
thy
desperate
hand
!
Art
thou
a
man
?
Thy
form
cries
out
thou
art
.
Thy
tears
are
womanish
;
thy
wild
acts
denote
The
unreasonable
fury
of
a
beast
.
Unseemly
woman
in
a
seeming
man
,
And
ill-beseeming
beast
in
seeming
both
!
Thou
hast
amazed
me
.
By
my
holy
order
,
I
thought
thy
disposition
better
tempered
.
Hast
thou
slain
Tybalt
?
Wilt
thou
slay
thyself
,
And
slay
thy
lady
that
in
thy
life
lives
,
By
doing
damnèd
hate
upon
thyself
?
Why
railest
thou
on
thy
birth
,
the
heaven
,
and
earth
,
Since
birth
and
heaven
and
earth
all
three
do
meet
In
thee
at
once
,
which
thou
at
once
wouldst
lose
?
Fie
,
fie
,
thou
shamest
thy
shape
,
thy
love
,
thy
wit
,
Which
,
like
a
usurer
,
abound’st
in
all
And
usest
none
in
that
true
use
indeed
Which
should
bedeck
thy
shape
,
thy
love
,
thy
wit
.
Thy
noble
shape
is
but
a
form
of
wax
,
Digressing
from
the
valor
of
a
man
;
Thy
dear
love
sworn
but
hollow
perjury
,
Killing
that
love
which
thou
hast
vowed
to
cherish
;
Thy
wit
,
that
ornament
to
shape
and
love
,
Misshapen
in
the
conduct
of
them
both
,
Like
powder
in
a
skilless
soldier’s
flask
,
Is
set
afire
by
thine
own
ignorance
,
And
thou
dismembered
with
thine
own
defense
.
What
,
rouse
thee
,
man
!
Thy
Juliet
is
alive
,
For
whose
dear
sake
thou
wast
but
lately
dead
:
There
art
thou
happy
.
Tybalt
would
kill
thee
,
But
thou
slewest
Tybalt
:
there
art
thou
happy
.
The
law
that
threatened
death
becomes
thy
friend
And
turns
it
to
exile
:
there
art
thou
happy
.
A
pack
of
blessings
light
upon
thy
back
;
Happiness
courts
thee
in
her
best
array
;
But
,
like
a
misbehaved
and
sullen
wench
,
Thou
pouts
upon
thy
fortune
and
thy
love
.
Take
heed
,
take
heed
,
for
such
die
miserable
.
Go
,
get
thee
to
thy
love
,
as
was
decreed
.
Ascend
her
chamber
.
Hence
and
comfort
her
.
But
look
thou
stay
not
till
the
watch
be
set
,
For
then
thou
canst
not
pass
to
Mantua
,
Where
thou
shalt
live
till
we
can
find
a
time
To
blaze
your
marriage
,
reconcile
your
friends
,
Beg
pardon
of
the
Prince
,
and
call
thee
back
With
twenty
hundred
thousand
times
more
joy
Than
thou
went’st
forth
in
lamentation
.
—
Go
before
,
nurse
.
Commend
me
to
thy
lady
,
And
bid
her
hasten
all
the
house
to
bed
,
Which
heavy
sorrow
makes
them
apt
unto
.
Romeo
is
coming
.
Things
have
fallen
out
,
sir
,
so
unluckily
That
we
have
had
no
time
to
move
our
daughter
.
Look
you
,
she
loved
her
kinsman
Tybalt
dearly
,
And
so
did
I
.
Well
,
we
were
born
to
die
.
’Tis
very
late
.
She’ll
not
come
down
tonight
.
I
promise
you
,
but
for
your
company
,
I
would
have
been
abed
an
hour
ago
.
It
was
the
lark
,
the
herald
of
the
morn
,
No
nightingale
.
Look
,
love
,
what
envious
streaks
Do
lace
the
severing
clouds
in
yonder
east
.
Night’s
candles
are
burnt
out
,
and
jocund
day
Stands
tiptoe
on
the
misty
mountain-tops
.
I
must
be
gone
and
live
,
or
stay
and
die
.
Your
lady
mother
is
coming
to
your
chamber
.
The
day
is
broke
;
be
wary
;
look
about
.
O
God
,
I
have
an
ill-divining
soul
!
Methinks
I
see
thee
,
now
thou
art
so
low
,
As
one
dead
in
the
bottom
of
a
tomb
.
Either
my
eyesight
fails
or
thou
lookest
pale
.
And
trust
me
,
love
,
in
my
eye
so
do
you
.
Dry
sorrow
drinks
our
blood
.
Adieu
,
adieu
.
Well
,
well
,
thou
hast
a
careful
father
,
child
,
One
who
,
to
put
thee
from
thy
heaviness
,
Hath
sorted
out
a
sudden
day
of
joy
That
thou
expects
not
,
nor
I
looked
not
for
.
When
the
sun
sets
,
the
earth
doth
drizzle
dew
,
But
for
the
sunset
of
my
brother’s
son
It
rains
downright
.
How
now
,
a
conduit
,
girl
?
What
,
still
in
tears
?
Evermore
show’ring
?
In
one
little
body
Thou
counterfeits
a
bark
,
a
sea
,
a
wind
.
For
still
thy
eyes
,
which
I
may
call
the
sea
,
Do
ebb
and
flow
with
tears
;
the
bark
thy
body
is
,
Sailing
in
this
salt
flood
;
the
winds
thy
sighs
,
Who
,
raging
with
thy
tears
and
they
with
them
,
Without
a
sudden
calm
,
will
overset
Thy
tempest-tossèd
body
.
—
How
now
,
wife
?
Have
you
delivered
to
her
our
decree
?
Hang
thee
,
young
baggage
,
disobedient
wretch
!
I
tell
thee
what
:
get
thee
to
church
o’
Thursday
,
Or
never
after
look
me
in
the
face
.
Speak
not
;
reply
not
;
do
not
answer
me
.
My
fingers
itch
.
—
Wife
,
we
scarce
thought
us
blessed
That
God
had
lent
us
but
this
only
child
,
But
now
I
see
this
one
is
one
too
much
,
And
that
we
have
a
curse
in
having
her
.
Out
on
her
,
hilding
.
God’s
bread
,
it
makes
me
mad
.
Day
,
night
,
hour
,
tide
,
time
,
work
,
play
,
Alone
,
in
company
,
still
my
care
hath
been
To
have
her
matched
.
And
having
now
provided
A
gentleman
of
noble
parentage
,
Of
fair
demesnes
,
youthful
,
and
nobly
ligned
,
Stuffed
,
as
they
say
,
with
honorable
parts
,
Proportioned
as
one’s
thought
would
wish
a
man
—
And
then
to
have
a
wretched
puling
fool
,
A
whining
mammet
,
in
her
fortune’s
tender
,
To
answer
I’ll
not
wed
.
I
cannot
love
.
I
am
too
young
.
I
pray
you
,
pardon
me
.
But
,
an
you
will
not
wed
,
I’ll
pardon
you
!
Graze
where
you
will
,
you
shall
not
house
with
me
.
Look
to
’t
;
think
on
’t
.
I
do
not
use
to
jest
.
Thursday
is
near
.
Lay
hand
on
heart
;
advise
.
An
you
be
mine
,
I’ll
give
you
to
my
friend
.
An
you
be
not
,
hang
,
beg
,
starve
,
die
in
the
streets
,
For
,
by
my
soul
,
I’ll
ne’er
acknowledge
thee
,
Nor
what
is
mine
shall
never
do
thee
good
.
Trust
to
’t
;
bethink
you
.
I’ll
not
be
forsworn
.
I
would
I
knew
not
why
it
should
be
slowed
.
—
Look
,
sir
,
here
comes
the
lady
toward
my
cell
.
Tell
me
not
,
friar
,
that
thou
hearest
of
this
,
Unless
thou
tell
me
how
I
may
prevent
it
.
If
in
thy
wisdom
thou
canst
give
no
help
,
Do
thou
but
call
my
resolution
wise
,
And
with
this
knife
I’ll
help
it
presently
.
God
joined
my
heart
and
Romeo’s
,
thou
our
hands
;
And
ere
this
hand
,
by
thee
to
Romeo’s
sealed
,
Shall
be
the
label
to
another
deed
,
Or
my
true
heart
with
treacherous
revolt
Turn
to
another
,
this
shall
slay
them
both
.
Therefore
out
of
thy
long-experienced
time
Give
me
some
present
counsel
,
or
,
behold
,
’Twixt
my
extremes
and
me
this
bloody
knife
Shall
play
the
umpire
,
arbitrating
that
Which
the
commission
of
thy
years
and
art
Could
to
no
issue
of
true
honor
bring
.
Be
not
so
long
to
speak
.
I
long
to
die
If
what
thou
speak’st
speak
not
of
remedy
.
Hold
,
then
.
Go
home
;
be
merry
;
give
consent
To
marry
Paris
.
Wednesday
is
tomorrow
.
Tomorrow
night
look
that
thou
lie
alone
;
Let
not
the
Nurse
lie
with
thee
in
thy
chamber
.
Take
thou
this
vial
,
being
then
in
bed
,
And
this
distilling
liquor
drink
thou
off
;
When
presently
through
all
thy
veins
shall
run
A
cold
and
drowsy
humor
;
for
no
pulse
Shall
keep
his
native
progress
,
but
surcease
.
No
warmth
,
no
breath
shall
testify
thou
livest
.
The
roses
in
thy
lips
and
cheeks
shall
fade
To
paly
ashes
,
thy
eyes’
windows
fall
Like
death
when
he
shuts
up
the
day
of
life
.
Each
part
,
deprived
of
supple
government
,
Shall
,
stiff
and
stark
and
cold
,
appear
like
death
,
And
in
this
borrowed
likeness
of
shrunk
death
Thou
shalt
continue
two
and
forty
hours
And
then
awake
as
from
a
pleasant
sleep
.
Now
,
when
the
bridegroom
in
the
morning
comes
To
rouse
thee
from
thy
bed
,
there
art
thou
dead
.
Then
,
as
the
manner
of
our
country
is
,
In
thy
best
robes
uncovered
on
the
bier
Thou
shalt
be
borne
to
that
same
ancient
vault
Where
all
the
kindred
of
the
Capulets
lie
.
In
the
meantime
,
against
thou
shalt
awake
,
Shall
Romeo
by
my
letters
know
our
drift
,
And
hither
shall
he
come
,
and
he
and
I
Will
watch
thy
waking
,
and
that
very
night
Shall
Romeo
bear
thee
hence
to
Mantua
.
And
this
shall
free
thee
from
this
present
shame
,
If
no
inconstant
toy
nor
womanish
fear
Abate
thy
valor
in
the
acting
it
.
See
where
she
comes
from
shrift
with
merry
look
.
Farewell
.
—
God
knows
when
we
shall
meet
again
.
I
have
a
faint
cold
fear
thrills
through
my
veins
That
almost
freezes
up
the
heat
of
life
.
I’ll
call
them
back
again
to
comfort
me
.
—
Nurse
!
—
What
should
she
do
here
?
My
dismal
scene
I
needs
must
act
alone
.
Come
,
vial
.
What
if
this
mixture
do
not
work
at
all
?
Shall
I
be
married
then
tomorrow
morning
?
No
,
no
,
this
shall
forbid
it
.
Lie
thou
there
.
What
if
it
be
a
poison
which
the
Friar
Subtly
hath
ministered
to
have
me
dead
,
Lest
in
this
marriage
he
should
be
dishonored
Because
he
married
me
before
to
Romeo
?
I
fear
it
is
.
And
yet
methinks
it
should
not
,
For
he
hath
still
been
tried
a
holy
man
.
How
if
,
when
I
am
laid
into
the
tomb
,
I
wake
before
the
time
that
Romeo
Come
to
redeem
me
?
There’s
a
fearful
point
.
Shall
I
not
then
be
stifled
in
the
vault
,
To
whose
foul
mouth
no
healthsome
air
breathes
in
,
And
there
die
strangled
ere
my
Romeo
comes
?
Or
,
if
I
live
,
is
it
not
very
like
The
horrible
conceit
of
death
and
night
,
Together
with
the
terror
of
the
place
—
As
in
a
vault
,
an
ancient
receptacle
Where
for
this
many
hundred
years
the
bones
Of
all
my
buried
ancestors
are
packed
;
Where
bloody
Tybalt
,
yet
but
green
in
earth
,
Lies
fest’ring
in
his
shroud
;
where
,
as
they
say
,
At
some
hours
in
the
night
spirits
resort
—
Alack
,
alack
,
is
it
not
like
that
I
,
So
early
waking
,
what
with
loathsome
smells
,
And
shrieks
like
mandrakes
torn
out
of
the
earth
,
That
living
mortals
,
hearing
them
,
run
mad
—
O
,
if
I
wake
,
shall
I
not
be
distraught
,
Environèd
with
all
these
hideous
fears
,
And
madly
play
with
my
forefathers’
joints
,
And
pluck
the
mangled
Tybalt
from
his
shroud
,
And
,
in
this
rage
,
with
some
great
kinsman’s
bone
,
As
with
a
club
,
dash
out
my
desp’rate
brains
?
O
look
,
methinks
I
see
my
cousin’s
ghost
Seeking
out
Romeo
that
did
spit
his
body
Upon
a
rapier’s
point
!
Stay
,
Tybalt
,
stay
!
Romeo
,
Romeo
,
Romeo
!
Here’s
drink
.
I
drink
to
thee
.
Come
,
stir
,
stir
,
stir
!
The
second
cock
hath
crowed
.
The
curfew
bell
hath
rung
.
’Tis
three
o’clock
.
—
Look
to
the
baked
meats
,
good
Angelica
.
Spare
not
for
cost
.
Look , look ! — O heavy day !
O
me
!
O
me
!
My
child
,
my
only
life
,
Revive
,
look
up
,
or
I
will
die
with
thee
.
Help
,
help
!
Call
help
.
Ha
,
let
me
see
her
!
Out
,
alas
,
she’s
cold
.
Her
blood
is
settled
,
and
her
joints
are
stiff
.
Life
and
these
lips
have
long
been
separated
.
Death
lies
on
her
like
an
untimely
frost
Upon
the
sweetest
flower
of
all
the
field
.
I
do
beseech
you
,
sir
,
have
patience
.
Your
looks
are
pale
and
wild
and
do
import
Some
misadventure
.
No
matter
.
Get
thee
gone
,
And
hire
those
horses
.
I’ll
be
with
thee
straight
.
Well
,
Juliet
,
I
will
lie
with
thee
tonight
.
Let’s
see
for
means
.
O
mischief
,
thou
art
swift
To
enter
in
the
thoughts
of
desperate
men
.
I
do
remember
an
apothecary
(
And
hereabouts
he
dwells
)
which
late
I
noted
In
tattered
weeds
,
with
overwhelming
brows
,
Culling
of
simples
.
Meager
were
his
looks
.
Sharp
misery
had
worn
him
to
the
bones
.
And
in
his
needy
shop
a
tortoise
hung
,
An
alligator
stuffed
,
and
other
skins
Of
ill-shaped
fishes
;
and
about
his
shelves
,
A
beggarly
account
of
empty
boxes
,
Green
earthen
pots
,
bladders
,
and
musty
seeds
,
Remnants
of
packthread
,
and
old
cakes
of
roses
Were
thinly
scattered
to
make
up
a
show
.
Noting
this
penury
,
to
myself
I
said
An
if
a
man
did
need
a
poison
now
,
Whose
sale
is
present
death
in
Mantua
,
Here
lives
a
caitiff
wretch
would
sell
it
him
.
O
,
this
same
thought
did
but
forerun
my
need
,
And
this
same
needy
man
must
sell
it
me
.
As
I
remember
,
this
should
be
the
house
.
Being
holiday
,
the
beggar’s
shop
is
shut
.
—
What
ho
,
Apothecary
!
Give
me
thy
torch
,
boy
.
Hence
and
stand
aloof
.
Yet
put
it
out
,
for
I
would
not
be
seen
.
Under
yond
yew
trees
lay
thee
all
along
,
Holding
thy
ear
close
to
the
hollow
ground
.
So
shall
no
foot
upon
the
churchyard
tread
(
Being
loose
,
unfirm
,
with
digging
up
of
graves
)
But
thou
shalt
hear
it
.
Whistle
then
to
me
As
signal
that
thou
hearest
something
approach
.
Give
me
those
flowers
.
Do
as
I
bid
thee
.
Go
.
Give
me
that
mattock
and
the
wrenching
iron
.
Hold
,
take
this
letter
.
Early
in
the
morning
See
thou
deliver
it
to
my
lord
and
father
.
Give
me
the
light
.
Upon
thy
life
I
charge
thee
,
Whate’er
thou
hearest
or
seest
,
stand
all
aloof
And
do
not
interrupt
me
in
my
course
.
Why
I
descend
into
this
bed
of
death
Is
partly
to
behold
my
lady’s
face
,
But
chiefly
to
take
thence
from
her
dead
finger
A
precious
ring
,
a
ring
that
I
must
use
In
dear
employment
.
Therefore
hence
,
begone
.
But
,
if
thou
,
jealous
,
dost
return
to
pry
In
what
I
farther
shall
intend
to
do
,
By
heaven
,
I
will
tear
thee
joint
by
joint
And
strew
this
hungry
churchyard
with
thy
limbs
.
The
time
and
my
intents
are
savage-wild
,
More
fierce
and
more
inexorable
far
Than
empty
tigers
or
the
roaring
sea
.
For
all
this
same
,
I’ll
hide
me
hereabout
.
His
looks
I
fear
,
and
his
intents
I
doubt
.
In
faith
,
I
will
.
—
Let
me
peruse
this
face
.
Mercutio’s
kinsman
,
noble
County
Paris
!
What
said
my
man
when
my
betossèd
soul
Did
not
attend
him
as
we
rode
?
I
think
He
told
me
Paris
should
have
married
Juliet
.
Said
he
not
so
?
Or
did
I
dream
it
so
?
Or
am
I
mad
,
hearing
him
talk
of
Juliet
,
To
think
it
was
so
?
—
O
,
give
me
thy
hand
,
One
writ
with
me
in
sour
misfortune’s
book
!
I’ll
bury
thee
in
a
triumphant
grave
.
—
A
grave
?
O
,
no
.
A
lantern
,
slaughtered
youth
,
For
here
lies
Juliet
,
and
her
beauty
makes
This
vault
a
feasting
presence
full
of
light
.
—
Death
,
lie
thou
there
,
by
a
dead
man
interred
.
How
oft
when
men
are
at
the
point
of
death
Have
they
been
merry
,
which
their
keepers
call
A
light’ning
before
death
!
O
,
how
may
I
Call
this
a
light’ning
?
—
O
my
love
,
my
wife
,
Death
,
that
hath
sucked
the
honey
of
thy
breath
,
Hath
had
no
power
yet
upon
thy
beauty
.
Thou
art
not
conquered
.
Beauty’s
ensign
yet
Is
crimson
in
thy
lips
and
in
thy
cheeks
,
And
death’s
pale
flag
is
not
advancèd
there
.
—
Tybalt
,
liest
thou
there
in
thy
bloody
sheet
?
O
,
what
more
favor
can
I
do
to
thee
Than
with
that
hand
that
cut
thy
youth
in
twain
To
sunder
his
that
was
thine
enemy
?
Forgive
me
,
cousin
.
—
Ah
,
dear
Juliet
,
Why
art
thou
yet
so
fair
?
Shall
I
believe
That
unsubstantial
death
is
amorous
,
And
that
the
lean
abhorrèd
monster
keeps
Thee
here
in
dark
to
be
his
paramour
?
For
fear
of
that
I
still
will
stay
with
thee
And
never
from
this
palace
of
dim
night
Depart
again
.
Here
,
here
will
I
remain
With
worms
that
are
thy
chambermaids
.
O
,
here
Will
I
set
up
my
everlasting
rest
And
shake
the
yoke
of
inauspicious
stars
From
this
world-wearied
flesh
!
Eyes
,
look
your
last
.
Arms
,
take
your
last
embrace
.
And
,
lips
,
O
,
you
The
doors
of
breath
,
seal
with
a
righteous
kiss
A
dateless
bargain
to
engrossing
death
.
Come
,
bitter
conduct
,
come
,
unsavory
guide
!
Thou
desperate
pilot
,
now
at
once
run
on
The
dashing
rocks
thy
seasick
weary
bark
!
Here’s
to
my
love
.
O
true
apothecary
,
Thy
drugs
are
quick
.
Thus
with
a
kiss
I
die
.
I
dare
not
,
sir
.
My
master
knows
not
but
I
am
gone
hence
,
And
fearfully
did
menace
me
with
death
If
I
did
stay
to
look
on
his
intents
.
Romeo
!
—
Alack
,
alack
,
what
blood
is
this
which
stains
The
stony
entrance
of
this
sepulcher
?
What
mean
these
masterless
and
gory
swords
To
lie
discolored
by
this
place
of
peace
?
Romeo
!
O
,
pale
!
Who
else
?
What
,
Paris
too
?
And
steeped
in
blood
?
Ah
,
what
an
unkind
hour
Is
guilty
of
this
lamentable
chance
!
The
lady
stirs
.
The
ground
is
bloody
.
—
Search
about
the
churchyard
.
Go
,
some
of
you
;
whoe’er
you
find
,
attach
.
Pitiful
sight
!
Here
lies
the
County
slain
,
And
Juliet
bleeding
,
warm
,
and
newly
dead
,
Who
here
hath
lain
this
two
days
burièd
.
—
Go
,
tell
the
Prince
.
Run
to
the
Capulets
.
Raise
up
the
Montagues
.
Some
others
search
.
We
see
the
ground
whereon
these
woes
do
lie
,
But
the
true
ground
of
all
these
piteous
woes
We
cannot
without
circumstance
descry
.
O
heavens
!
O
wife
,
look
how
our
daughter
bleeds
!
This
dagger
hath
mista’en
,
for
,
lo
,
his
house
Is
empty
on
the
back
of
Montague
,
And
it
mis-sheathèd
in
my
daughter’s
bosom
.
Look , and thou shalt see .
I
will
be
brief
,
for
my
short
date
of
breath
Is
not
so
long
as
is
a
tedious
tale
.
Romeo
,
there
dead
,
was
husband
to
that
Juliet
,
And
she
,
there
dead
,
that
Romeo’s
faithful
wife
.
I
married
them
,
and
their
stol’n
marriage
day
Was
Tybalt’s
doomsday
,
whose
untimely
death
Banished
the
new-made
bridegroom
from
this
city
,
For
whom
,
and
not
for
Tybalt
,
Juliet
pined
.
You
,
to
remove
that
siege
of
grief
from
her
,
Betrothed
and
would
have
married
her
perforce
To
County
Paris
.
Then
comes
she
to
me
,
And
with
wild
looks
bid
me
devise
some
mean
To
rid
her
from
this
second
marriage
,
Or
in
my
cell
there
would
she
kill
herself
.
Then
gave
I
her
(
so
tutored
by
my
art
)
A
sleeping
potion
,
which
so
took
effect
As
I
intended
,
for
it
wrought
on
her
The
form
of
death
.
Meantime
I
writ
to
Romeo
That
he
should
hither
come
as
this
dire
night
To
help
to
take
her
from
her
borrowed
grave
,
Being
the
time
the
potion’s
force
should
cease
.
But
he
which
bore
my
letter
,
Friar
John
,
Was
stayed
by
accident
,
and
yesternight
Returned
my
letter
back
.
Then
all
alone
At
the
prefixèd
hour
of
her
waking
Came
I
to
take
her
from
her
kindred’s
vault
,
Meaning
to
keep
her
closely
at
my
cell
Till
I
conveniently
could
send
to
Romeo
.
But
when
I
came
,
some
minute
ere
the
time
Of
her
awakening
,
here
untimely
lay
The
noble
Paris
and
true
Romeo
dead
.
She
wakes
,
and
I
entreated
her
come
forth
And
bear
this
work
of
heaven
with
patience
.
But
then
a
noise
did
scare
me
from
the
tomb
,
And
she
,
too
desperate
,
would
not
go
with
me
But
,
as
it
seems
,
did
violence
on
herself
.
All
this
I
know
,
and
to
the
marriage
Her
nurse
is
privy
.
And
if
aught
in
this
Miscarried
by
my
fault
,
let
my
old
life
Be
sacrificed
some
hour
before
his
time
Unto
the
rigor
of
severest
law
.
Give
me
the
letter
.
I
will
look
on
it
.
—
Where
is
the
County’s
page
,
that
raised
the
watch
?
—
Sirrah
,
what
made
your
master
in
this
place
?
He
came
with
flowers
to
strew
his
lady’s
grave
And
bid
me
stand
aloof
,
and
so
I
did
.
Anon
comes
one
with
light
to
ope
the
tomb
,
And
by
and
by
my
master
drew
on
him
,
And
then
I
ran
away
to
call
the
watch
.
A
glooming
peace
this
morning
with
it
brings
.
The
sun
for
sorrow
will
not
show
his
head
.
Go
hence
to
have
more
talk
of
these
sad
things
.
Some
shall
be
pardoned
,
and
some
punishèd
.
For
never
was
a
story
of
more
woe
Than
this
of
Juliet
and
her
Romeo
.
Merchant
of
Syracusa
,
plead
no
more
.
I
am
not
partial
to
infringe
our
laws
.
The
enmity
and
discord
which
of
late
Sprung
from
the
rancorous
outrage
of
your
duke
To
merchants
,
our
well-dealing
countrymen
,
Who
,
wanting
guilders
to
redeem
their
lives
,
Have
sealed
his
rigorous
statutes
with
their
bloods
,
Excludes
all
pity
from
our
threat’ning
looks
.
For
since
the
mortal
and
intestine
jars
’Twixt
thy
seditious
countrymen
and
us
,
It
hath
in
solemn
synods
been
decreed
,
Both
by
the
Syracusians
and
ourselves
,
To
admit
no
traffic
to
our
adverse
towns
.
Nay
,
more
,
if
any
born
at
Ephesus
Be
seen
at
Syracusian
marts
and
fairs
;
Again
,
if
any
Syracusian
born
Come
to
the
bay
of
Ephesus
,
he
dies
,
His
goods
confiscate
to
the
Duke’s
dispose
,
Unless
a
thousand
marks
be
levièd
To
quit
the
penalty
and
to
ransom
him
.
Thy
substance
,
valued
at
the
highest
rate
,
Cannot
amount
unto
a
hundred
marks
;
Therefore
by
law
thou
art
condemned
to
die
.
Look
when
I
serve
him
so
,
he
takes
it
ill
.
His
company
must
do
his
minions
grace
,
Whilst
I
at
home
starve
for
a
merry
look
.
Hath
homely
age
th’
alluring
beauty
took
From
my
poor
cheek
?
Then
he
hath
wasted
it
.
Are
my
discourses
dull
?
Barren
my
wit
?
If
voluble
and
sharp
discourse
be
marred
,
Unkindness
blunts
it
more
than
marble
hard
.
Do
their
gay
vestments
his
affections
bait
?
That’s
not
my
fault
;
he’s
master
of
my
state
.
What
ruins
are
in
me
that
can
be
found
By
him
not
ruined
?
Then
is
he
the
ground
Of
my
defeatures
.
My
decayèd
fair
A
sunny
look
of
his
would
soon
repair
.
But
,
too
unruly
deer
,
he
breaks
the
pale
And
feeds
from
home
.
Poor
I
am
but
his
stale
.
Because
that
I
familiarly
sometimes
Do
use
you
for
my
fool
and
chat
with
you
,
Your
sauciness
will
jest
upon
my
love
And
make
a
common
of
my
serious
hours
.
When
the
sun
shines
,
let
foolish
gnats
make
sport
,
But
creep
in
crannies
when
he
hides
his
beams
.
If
you
will
jest
with
me
,
know
my
aspect
,
And
fashion
your
demeanor
to
my
looks
,
Or
I
will
beat
this
method
in
your
sconce
.
Ay
,
ay
,
Antipholus
,
look
strange
and
frown
.
Some
other
mistress
hath
thy
sweet
aspects
.
I
am
not
Adriana
,
nor
thy
wife
.
The
time
was
once
when
thou
unurged
wouldst
vow
That
never
words
were
music
to
thine
ear
,
That
never
object
pleasing
in
thine
eye
,
That
never
touch
well
welcome
to
thy
hand
,
That
never
meat
sweet-savored
in
thy
taste
,
Unless
I
spake
,
or
looked
,
or
touched
,
or
carved
to
thee
.
How
comes
it
now
,
my
husband
,
O
,
how
comes
it
That
thou
art
then
estrangèd
from
thyself
?
Thyself
I
call
it
,
being
strange
to
me
,
That
,
undividable
,
incorporate
,
Am
better
than
thy
dear
self’s
better
part
.
Ah
,
do
not
tear
away
thyself
from
me
!
For
know
,
my
love
,
as
easy
mayst
thou
fall
A
drop
of
water
in
the
breaking
gulf
,
And
take
unmingled
thence
that
drop
again
Without
addition
or
diminishing
,
As
take
from
me
thyself
and
not
me
too
.
How
dearly
would
it
touch
thee
to
the
quick
,
Shouldst
thou
but
hear
I
were
licentious
And
that
this
body
,
consecrate
to
thee
,
By
ruffian
lust
should
be
contaminate
!
Wouldst
thou
not
spit
at
me
,
and
spurn
at
me
,
And
hurl
the
name
of
husband
in
my
face
,
And
tear
the
stained
skin
off
my
harlot
brow
,
And
from
my
false
hand
cut
the
wedding
ring
,
And
break
it
with
a
deep-divorcing
vow
?
I
know
thou
canst
,
and
therefore
see
thou
do
it
.
I
am
possessed
with
an
adulterate
blot
;
My
blood
is
mingled
with
the
crime
of
lust
;
For
if
we
two
be
one
,
and
thou
play
false
,
I
do
digest
the
poison
of
thy
flesh
,
Being
strumpeted
by
thy
contagion
.
Keep
then
fair
league
and
truce
with
thy
true
bed
,
I
live
distained
,
thou
undishonorèd
.
And
may
it
be
that
you
have
quite
forgot
A
husband’s
office
?
Shall
,
Antipholus
,
Even
in
the
spring
of
love
thy
love-springs
rot
?
Shall
love
,
in
building
,
grow
so
ruinous
?
If
you
did
wed
my
sister
for
her
wealth
,
Then
for
her
wealth’s
sake
use
her
with
more
kindness
.
Or
if
you
like
elsewhere
,
do
it
by
stealth
—
Muffle
your
false
love
with
some
show
of
blindness
.
Let
not
my
sister
read
it
in
your
eye
;
Be
not
thy
tongue
thy
own
shame’s
orator
;
Look
sweet
,
speak
fair
,
become
disloyalty
;
Apparel
vice
like
virtue’s
harbinger
.
Bear
a
fair
presence
,
though
your
heart
be
tainted
.
Teach
sin
the
carriage
of
a
holy
saint
.
Be
secret-false
.
What
need
she
be
acquainted
?
What
simple
thief
brags
of
his
own
attaint
?
’Tis
double
wrong
to
truant
with
your
bed
And
let
her
read
it
in
thy
looks
at
board
.
Shame
hath
a
bastard
fame
,
well
managèd
;
Ill
deeds
is
doubled
with
an
evil
word
.
Alas
,
poor
women
,
make
us
but
believe
,
Being
compact
of
credit
,
that
you
love
us
.
Though
others
have
the
arm
,
show
us
the
sleeve
;
We
in
your
motion
turn
,
and
you
may
move
us
.
Then
,
gentle
brother
,
get
you
in
again
.
Comfort
my
sister
,
cheer
her
,
call
her
wife
.
’Tis
holy
sport
to
be
a
little
vain
When
the
sweet
breath
of
flattery
conquers
strife
.
Sweet
mistress
—
what
your
name
is
else
I
know
not
,
Nor
by
what
wonder
you
do
hit
of
mine
—
Less
in
your
knowledge
and
your
grace
you
show
not
Than
our
Earth’s
earth’s
wonder
,
more
than
Earth
earth
divine
.
Teach
me
,
dear
creature
,
how
to
think
and
speak
.
Lay
open
to
my
earthy
gross
conceit
,
Smothered
in
errors
,
feeble
,
shallow
,
weak
,
The
folded
meaning
of
your
words’
deceit
.
Against
my
soul’s
pure
truth
why
labor
you
To
make
it
wander
in
an
unknown
field
?
Are
you
a
god
?
Would
you
create
me
new
?
Transform
me
,
then
,
and
to
your
power
I’ll
yield
.
But
if
that
I
am
I
,
then
well
I
know
Your
weeping
sister
is
no
wife
of
mine
,
Nor
to
her
bed
no
homage
do
I
owe
.
Far
more
,
far
more
,
to
you
do
I
decline
.
O
,
train
me
not
,
sweet
mermaid
,
with
thy
note
To
drown
me
in
thy
sister’s
flood
of
tears
.
Sing
,
Siren
,
for
thyself
,
and
I
will
dote
.
Spread
o’er
the
silver
waves
thy
golden
hairs
,
And
as
a
bed
I’ll
take
them
and
there
lie
,
And
in
that
glorious
supposition
think
He
gains
by
death
that
hath
such
means
to
die
.
Let
love
,
being
light
,
be
drownèd
if
she
sink
.
As
good
to
wink
,
sweet
love
,
as
look
on
night
.
No
,
sir
,
’tis
in
grain
;
Noah’s
flood
could
not
do
it
.
I
looked
for
the
chalky
cliffs
,
but
I
could
find
no
whiteness
in
them
.
But
I
guess
it
stood
in
her
chin
,
by
the
salt
rheum
that
ran
between
France
and
it
.
O
,
sir
,
I
did
not
look
so
low
.
To
conclude
:
this
drudge
or
diviner
laid
claim
to
me
,
called
me
Dromio
,
swore
I
was
assured
to
her
,
told
me
what
privy
marks
I
had
about
me
,
as
the
mark
of
my
shoulder
,
the
mole
in
my
neck
,
the
great
wart
on
my
left
arm
,
that
I
,
amazed
,
ran
from
her
as
a
witch
.
And
,
I
think
,
if
my
breast
had
not
been
made
of
faith
,
and
my
heart
of
steel
,
She
had
transformed
me
to
a
curtal
dog
and
made
me
turn
i’
th’
wheel
.
Ah
,
Luciana
,
did
he
tempt
thee
so
?
Might’st
thou
perceive
austerely
in
his
eye
That
he
did
plead
in
earnest
,
yea
or
no
?
Looked
he
or
red
or
pale
,
or
sad
or
merrily
?
What
observation
mad’st
thou
in
this
case
Of
his
heart’s
meteors
tilting
in
his
face
?
Some
devils
ask
but
the
parings
of
one’s
nail
,
a
rush
,
a
hair
,
a
drop
of
blood
,
a
pin
,
a
nut
,
a
cherrystone
;
but
she
,
more
covetous
,
would
have
a
chain
.
Master
,
be
wise
.
An
if
you
give
it
her
,
the
devil
will
shake
her
chain
and
fright
us
with
it
.
Alas
,
how
fiery
and
how
sharp
he
looks
!
Mistress
,
both
man
and
master
is
possessed
.
I
know
it
by
their
pale
and
deadly
looks
.
They
must
be
bound
and
laid
in
some
dark
room
.
Ay
me
,
poor
man
,
how
pale
and
wan
he
looks
!
God
for
Thy
mercy
,
they
are
loose
again
!
O
mistress
,
mistress
,
shift
and
save
yourself
.
My
master
and
his
man
are
both
broke
loose
,
Beaten
the
maids
a-row
,
and
bound
the
doctor
,
Whose
beard
they
have
singed
off
with
brands
of
fire
,
And
ever
as
it
blazed
they
threw
on
him
Great
pails
of
puddled
mire
to
quench
the
hair
.
My
master
preaches
patience
to
him
,
and
the
while
His
man
with
scissors
nicks
him
like
a
fool
;
And
sure
,
unless
you
send
some
present
help
,
Between
them
they
will
kill
the
conjurer
.
Justice
,
most
gracious
duke
.
O
,
grant
me
justice
,
Even
for
the
service
that
long
since
I
did
thee
When
I
bestrid
thee
in
the
wars
and
took
Deep
scars
to
save
thy
life
.
Even
for
the
blood
That
then
I
lost
for
thee
,
now
grant
me
justice
.
Ne’er
may
I
look
on
day
nor
sleep
on
night
But
she
tells
to
your
Highness
simple
truth
.
My
liege
,
I
am
advisèd
what
I
say
,
Neither
disturbed
with
the
effect
of
wine
,
Nor
heady-rash
provoked
with
raging
ire
,
Albeit
my
wrongs
might
make
one
wiser
mad
.
This
woman
locked
me
out
this
day
from
dinner
.
That
goldsmith
there
,
were
he
not
packed
with
her
,
Could
witness
it
,
for
he
was
with
me
then
,
Who
parted
with
me
to
go
fetch
a
chain
,
Promising
to
bring
it
to
the
Porpentine
,
Where
Balthasar
and
I
did
dine
together
.
Our
dinner
done
and
he
not
coming
thither
,
I
went
to
seek
him
.
In
the
street
I
met
him
,
And
in
his
company
that
gentleman
.
There
did
this
perjured
goldsmith
swear
me
down
That
I
this
day
of
him
received
the
chain
,
Which
,
God
He
knows
,
I
saw
not
;
for
the
which
He
did
arrest
me
with
an
officer
.
I
did
obey
and
sent
my
peasant
home
For
certain
ducats
.
He
with
none
returned
.
Then
fairly
I
bespoke
the
officer
To
go
in
person
with
me
to
my
house
.
By
th’
way
we
met
My
wife
,
her
sister
,
and
a
rabble
more
Of
vile
confederates
.
Along
with
them
They
brought
one
Pinch
,
a
hungry
,
lean-faced
villain
,
A
mere
anatomy
,
a
mountebank
,
A
threadbare
juggler
,
and
a
fortune-teller
,
A
needy
,
hollow-eyed
,
sharp-looking
wretch
,
A
living
dead
man
.
This
pernicious
slave
,
Forsooth
,
took
on
him
as
a
conjurer
,
And
,
gazing
in
mine
eyes
,
feeling
my
pulse
,
And
with
no
face
(
as
’twere
)
outfacing
me
,
Cries
out
I
was
possessed
.
Then
all
together
They
fell
upon
me
,
bound
me
,
bore
me
thence
,
And
in
a
dark
and
dankish
vault
at
home
There
left
me
and
my
man
,
both
bound
together
,
Till
gnawing
with
my
teeth
my
bonds
in
sunder
,
I
gained
my
freedom
and
immediately
Ran
hither
to
your
Grace
,
whom
I
beseech
To
give
me
ample
satisfaction
For
these
deep
shames
and
great
indignities
.
Why
look
you
strange
on
me
?
You
know
me
well
.
Not
know
my
voice
!
O
time’s
extremity
,
Hast
thou
so
cracked
and
splitted
my
poor
tongue
In
seven
short
years
that
here
my
only
son
Knows
not
my
feeble
key
of
untuned
cares
?
Though
now
this
grainèd
face
of
mine
be
hid
In
sap-consuming
winter’s
drizzled
snow
,
And
all
the
conduits
of
my
blood
froze
up
,
Yet
hath
my
night
of
life
some
memory
,
My
wasting
lamps
some
fading
glimmer
left
,
My
dull
deaf
ears
a
little
use
to
hear
.
All
these
old
witnesses
—
I
cannot
err
—
Tell
me
thou
art
my
son
Antipholus
.
Whoever
bound
him
,
I
will
loose
his
bonds
And
gain
a
husband
by
his
liberty
.
—
Speak
,
old
Egeon
,
if
thou
be’st
the
man
That
hadst
a
wife
once
called
Emilia
,
That
bore
thee
at
a
burden
two
fair
sons
.
O
,
if
thou
be’st
the
same
Egeon
,
speak
,
And
speak
unto
the
same
Emilia
.
He
speaks
to
me
.
—
I
am
your
master
,
Dromio
.
Come
,
go
with
us
.
We’ll
look
to
that
anon
.
Embrace
thy
brother
there
.
Rejoice
with
him
.
Your
mind
is
tossing
on
the
ocean
,
There
where
your
argosies
with
portly
sail
(
Like
signiors
and
rich
burghers
on
the
flood
,
Or
,
as
it
were
,
the
pageants
of
the
sea
)
Do
overpeer
the
petty
traffickers
That
curtsy
to
them
,
do
them
reverence
,
As
they
fly
by
them
with
their
woven
wings
.
You
look
not
well
,
Signior
Antonio
.
You
have
too
much
respect
upon
the
world
.
They
lose
it
that
do
buy
it
with
much
care
.
Believe
me
,
you
are
marvelously
changed
.
Let
me
play
the
fool
.
With
mirth
and
laughter
let
old
wrinkles
come
,
And
let
my
liver
rather
heat
with
wine
Than
my
heart
cool
with
mortifying
groans
.
Why
should
a
man
whose
blood
is
warm
within
Sit
like
his
grandsire
cut
in
alabaster
?
Sleep
when
he
wakes
?
And
creep
into
the
jaundice
By
being
peevish
?
I
tell
thee
what
,
Antonio
(
I
love
thee
,
and
’tis
my
love
that
speaks
)
:
There
are
a
sort
of
men
whose
visages
Do
cream
and
mantle
like
a
standing
pond
And
do
a
willful
stillness
entertain
With
purpose
to
be
dressed
in
an
opinion
Of
wisdom
,
gravity
,
profound
conceit
,
As
who
should
say
I
am
Sir
Oracle
,
And
when
I
ope
my
lips
,
let
no
dog
bark
.
O
my
Antonio
,
I
do
know
of
these
That
therefore
only
are
reputed
wise
For
saying
nothing
,
when
,
I
am
very
sure
,
If
they
should
speak
,
would
almost
damn
those
ears
Which
,
hearing
them
,
would
call
their
brothers
fools
.
I’ll
tell
thee
more
of
this
another
time
.
But
fish
not
with
this
melancholy
bait
For
this
fool
gudgeon
,
this
opinion
.
—
Come
,
good
Lorenzo
.
—
Fare
you
well
a
while
.
I’ll
end
my
exhortation
after
dinner
.
If
to
do
were
as
easy
as
to
know
what
were
good
to
do
,
chapels
had
been
churches
,
and
poor
men’s
cottages
princes’
palaces
.
It
is
a
good
divine
that
follows
his
own
instructions
.
I
can
easier
teach
twenty
what
were
good
to
be
done
than
to
be
one
of
the
twenty
to
follow
mine
own
teaching
.
The
brain
may
devise
laws
for
the
blood
,
but
a
hot
temper
leaps
o’er
a
cold
decree
:
such
a
hare
is
madness
the
youth
,
to
skip
o’er
the
meshes
of
good
counsel
the
cripple
.
But
this
reasoning
is
not
in
the
fashion
to
choose
me
a
husband
.
O
,
me
,
the
word
choose
!
I
may
neither
choose
who
I
would
nor
refuse
who
I
dislike
.
So
is
the
will
of
a
living
daughter
curbed
by
the
will
of
a
dead
father
.
Is
it
not
hard
,
Nerissa
,
that
I
cannot
choose
one
,
nor
refuse
none
?
True
,
madam
.
He
,
of
all
the
men
that
ever
my
foolish
eyes
looked
upon
,
was
the
best
deserving
a
fair
lady
.
How
like
a
fawning
publican
he
looks
!
I
hate
him
for
he
is
a
Christian
,
But
more
for
that
in
low
simplicity
He
lends
out
money
gratis
and
brings
down
The
rate
of
usance
here
with
us
in
Venice
.
If
I
can
catch
him
once
upon
the
hip
,
I
will
feed
fat
the
ancient
grudge
I
bear
him
.
He
hates
our
sacred
nation
,
and
he
rails
,
Even
there
where
merchants
most
do
congregate
,
On
me
,
my
bargains
,
and
my
well-won
thrift
,
Which
he
calls
interest
.
Cursèd
be
my
tribe
If
I
forgive
him
!
Why
,
look
you
how
you
storm
!
I
would
be
friends
with
you
and
have
your
love
,
Forget
the
shames
that
you
have
stained
me
with
,
Supply
your
present
wants
,
and
take
no
doit
Of
usance
for
my
moneys
,
and
you’ll
not
hear
me
!
This
is
kind
I
offer
.
Mislike
me
not
for
my
complexion
,
The
shadowed
livery
of
the
burnished
sun
,
To
whom
I
am
a
neighbor
and
near
bred
.
Bring
me
the
fairest
creature
northward
born
,
Where
Phoebus’
fire
scarce
thaws
the
icicles
,
And
let
us
make
incision
for
your
love
To
prove
whose
blood
is
reddest
,
his
or
mine
.
I
tell
thee
,
lady
,
this
aspect
of
mine
Hath
feared
the
valiant
;
by
my
love
I
swear
The
best
regarded
virgins
of
our
clime
Have
loved
it
too
.
I
would
not
change
this
hue
Except
to
steal
your
thoughts
,
my
gentle
queen
.
In
terms
of
choice
I
am
not
solely
led
By
nice
direction
of
a
maiden’s
eyes
;
Besides
,
the
lott’ry
of
my
destiny
Bars
me
the
right
of
voluntary
choosing
.
But
if
my
father
had
not
scanted
me
And
hedged
me
by
his
wit
to
yield
myself
His
wife
who
wins
me
by
that
means
I
told
you
,
Yourself
,
renownèd
prince
,
then
stood
as
fair
As
any
comer
I
have
looked
on
yet
For
my
affection
.
Even
for
that
I
thank
you
.
Therefore
I
pray
you
lead
me
to
the
caskets
To
try
my
fortune
.
By
this
scimitar
That
slew
the
Sophy
and
a
Persian
prince
,
That
won
three
fields
of
Sultan
Solyman
,
I
would
o’erstare
the
sternest
eyes
that
look
,
Outbrave
the
heart
most
daring
on
the
Earth
earth
,
Pluck
the
young
sucking
cubs
from
the
she-bear
,
Yea
,
mock
the
lion
when
he
roars
for
prey
,
To
win
thee
,
lady
.
But
,
alas
the
while
!
If
Hercules
and
Lychas
play
at
dice
Which
is
the
better
man
,
the
greater
throw
May
turn
by
fortune
from
the
weaker
hand
;
So
is
Alcides
beaten
by
his
page
,
And
so
may
I
,
blind
Fortune
leading
me
,
Miss
that
which
one
unworthier
may
attain
,
And
die
with
grieving
.
Do
I
look
like
a
cudgel
or
a
hovel-post
,
a
staff
or
a
prop
?
—
Do
you
know
me
,
father
?
Her
name
is
Margery
,
indeed
.
I’ll
be
sworn
if
thou
be
Lancelet
,
thou
art
mine
own
flesh
and
blood
.
Lord
worshiped
might
He
be
,
what
a
beard
hast
thou
got
!
Thou
hast
got
more
hair
on
thy
chin
than
Dobbin
my
fill-horse
has
on
his
tail
.
Signior
Bassanio
,
hear
me
.
If
I
do
not
put
on
a
sober
habit
,
Talk
with
respect
,
and
swear
but
now
and
then
,
Wear
prayer
books
in
my
pocket
,
look
demurely
,
Nay
more
,
while
grace
is
saying
,
hood
mine
eyes
Thus
with
my
hat
,
and
sigh
and
say
amen
,
Use
all
the
observance
of
civility
Like
one
well
studied
in
a
sad
ostent
To
please
his
grandam
,
never
trust
me
more
.
Farewell
,
good
Lancelet
.
Alack
,
what
heinous
sin
is
it
in
me
To
be
ashamed
to
be
my
father’s
child
?
But
though
I
am
a
daughter
to
his
blood
,
I
am
not
to
his
manners
.
O
Lorenzo
,
If
thou
keep
promise
,
I
shall
end
this
strife
,
Become
a
Christian
and
thy
loving
wife
.
I
am
bid
forth
to
supper
,
Jessica
.
There
are
my
keys
.
—
But
wherefore
should
I
go
?
I
am
not
bid
for
love
.
They
flatter
me
.
But
yet
I’ll
go
in
hate
,
to
feed
upon
The
prodigal
Christian
.
—
Jessica
,
my
girl
,
Look
to
my
house
.
—
I
am
right
loath
to
go
.
There
is
some
ill
a-brewing
towards
my
rest
,
For
I
did
dream
of
money
bags
tonight
.
I
will
go
before
,
sir
.
Mistress
,
look
out
at
window
for
all
this
.
There
will
come
a
Christian
by
Will
be
worth
a
Jewess’
eye
.
Here
,
catch
this
casket
;
it
is
worth
the
pains
.
I
am
glad
’tis
night
,
you
do
not
look
on
me
,
For
I
am
much
ashamed
of
my
exchange
.
But
love
is
blind
,
and
lovers
cannot
see
The
pretty
follies
that
themselves
commit
,
For
if
they
could
,
Cupid
himself
would
blush
To
see
me
thus
transformèd
to
a
boy
.
Let
good
Antonio
look
he
keep
his
day
,
Or
he
shall
pay
for
this
.
And
so
have
I
addressed
me
.
Fortune
now
To
my
heart’s
hope
!
Gold
,
silver
,
and
base
lead
.
Who
chooseth
me
must
give
and
hazard
all
he
hath
.
You
shall
look
fairer
ere
I
give
or
hazard
.
What
says
the
golden
chest
?
Ha
,
let
me
see
:
Who
chooseth
me
shall
gain
what
many
men
desire
.
What
many
men
desire
—
that
many
may
be
meant
By
the
fool
multitude
that
choose
by
show
,
Not
learning
more
than
the
fond
eye
doth
teach
,
Which
pries
not
to
th’
interior
,
but
like
the
martlet
Builds
in
the
weather
on
the
outward
wall
,
Even
in
the
force
and
road
of
casualty
.
I
will
not
choose
what
many
men
desire
,
Because
I
will
not
jump
with
common
spirits
And
rank
me
with
the
barbarous
multitudes
.
Why
,
then
,
to
thee
,
thou
silver
treasure
house
.
Tell
me
once
more
what
title
thou
dost
bear
.
Who
chooseth
me
shall
get
as
much
as
he
deserves
.
And
well
said
,
too
;
for
who
shall
go
about
To
cozen
fortune
and
be
honorable
Without
the
stamp
of
merit
?
Let
none
presume
To
wear
an
undeservèd
dignity
.
O
,
that
estates
,
degrees
,
and
offices
Were
not
derived
corruptly
,
and
that
clear
honor
Were
purchased
by
the
merit
of
the
wearer
!
How
many
then
should
cover
that
stand
bare
?
How
many
be
commanded
that
command
?
How
much
low
peasantry
would
then
be
gleaned
From
the
true
seed
of
honor
?
And
how
much
honor
Picked
from
the
chaff
and
ruin
of
the
times
,
To
be
new
varnished
?
Well
,
but
to
my
choice
.
Who
chooseth
me
shall
get
as
much
as
he
deserves
.
I
will
assume
desert
.
Give
me
a
key
for
this
,
And
instantly
unlock
my
fortunes
here
.
My own flesh and blood to rebel !
I say my daughter is my flesh and my blood .
There
is
more
difference
between
thy
flesh
and
hers
than
between
jet
and
ivory
,
more
between
your
bloods
than
there
is
between
red
wine
and
Rhenish
.
But
tell
us
,
do
you
hear
whether
Antonio
have
had
any
loss
at
sea
or
no
?
There
I
have
another
bad
match
!
A
bankrout
,
a
prodigal
,
who
dare
scarce
show
his
head
on
the
Rialto
,
a
beggar
that
was
used
to
come
so
smug
upon
the
mart
!
Let
him
look
to
his
bond
.
He
was
wont
to
call
me
usurer
;
let
him
look
to
his
bond
.
He
was
wont
to
lend
money
for
a
Christian
cur’sy
;
let
him
look
to
his
bond
.
I
pray
you
tarry
,
pause
a
day
or
two
Before
you
hazard
,
for
in
choosing
wrong
I
lose
your
company
;
therefore
forbear
a
while
.
There’s
something
tells
me
(
but
it
is
not
love
)
I
would
not
lose
you
,
and
you
know
yourself
Hate
counsels
not
in
such
a
quality
.
But
lest
you
should
not
understand
me
well
(
And
yet
a
maiden
hath
no
tongue
but
thought
)
I
would
detain
you
here
some
month
or
two
Before
you
venture
for
me
.
I
could
teach
you
How
to
choose
right
,
but
then
I
am
forsworn
.
So
will
I
never
be
.
So
may
you
miss
me
.
But
if
you
do
,
you’ll
make
me
wish
a
sin
,
That
I
had
been
forsworn
.
Beshrew
your
eyes
,
They
have
o’erlooked
me
and
divided
me
.
One
half
of
me
is
yours
,
the
other
half
yours
—
Mine
own
,
I
would
say
—
but
if
mine
,
then
yours
,
And
so
all
yours
.
O
,
these
naughty
times
Puts
bars
between
the
owners
and
their
rights
!
And
so
though
yours
,
not
yours
.
Prove
it
so
,
Let
Fortune
go
to
hell
for
it
,
not
I
.
I
speak
too
long
,
but
’tis
to
peize
the
time
,
To
eche
it
,
and
to
draw
it
out
in
length
,
To
stay
you
from
election
.
Away
,
then
.
I
am
locked
in
one
of
them
.
If
you
do
love
me
,
you
will
find
me
out
.
—
Nerissa
and
the
rest
,
stand
all
aloof
.
Let
music
sound
while
he
doth
make
his
choice
.
Then
if
he
lose
he
makes
a
swanlike
end
,
Fading
in
music
.
That
the
comparison
May
stand
more
proper
,
my
eye
shall
be
the
stream
And
wat’ry
deathbed
for
him
.
He
may
win
,
And
what
is
music
then
?
Then
music
is
Even
as
the
flourish
when
true
subjects
bow
To
a
new-crownèd
monarch
.
Such
it
is
As
are
those
dulcet
sounds
in
break
of
day
That
creep
into
the
dreaming
bridegroom’s
ear
And
summon
him
to
marriage
.
Now
he
goes
,
With
no
less
presence
but
with
much
more
love
Than
young
Alcides
when
he
did
redeem
The
virgin
tribute
paid
by
howling
Troy
To
the
sea-monster
.
I
stand
for
sacrifice
;
The
rest
aloof
are
the
Dardanian
wives
,
With
blearèd
visages
,
come
forth
to
view
The
issue
of
th’
exploit
.
Go
,
Hercules
!
Live
thou
,
I
live
.
With
much
much
more
dismay
I
view
the
fight
than
thou
that
mak’st
the
fray
.
So
may
the
outward
shows
be
least
themselves
;
The
world
is
still
deceived
with
ornament
.
In
law
,
what
plea
so
tainted
and
corrupt
But
,
being
seasoned
with
a
gracious
voice
,
Obscures
the
show
of
evil
?
In
religion
,
What
damnèd
error
but
some
sober
brow
Will
bless
it
and
approve
it
with
a
text
,
Hiding
the
grossness
with
fair
ornament
?
There
is
no
vice
so
simple
but
assumes
Some
mark
of
virtue
on
his
outward
parts
.
How
many
cowards
whose
hearts
are
all
as
false
As
stairs
of
sand
,
wear
yet
upon
their
chins
The
beards
of
Hercules
and
frowning
Mars
,
Who
inward
searched
have
livers
white
as
milk
,
And
these
assume
but
valor’s
excrement
To
render
them
redoubted
.
Look
on
beauty
,
And
you
shall
see
’tis
purchased
by
the
weight
,
Which
therein
works
a
miracle
in
nature
,
Making
them
lightest
that
wear
most
of
it
.
So
are
those
crispèd
snaky
golden
locks
,
Which
maketh
such
wanton
gambols
with
the
wind
Upon
supposèd
fairness
,
often
known
To
be
the
dowry
of
a
second
head
,
The
skull
that
bred
them
in
the
sepulcher
.
Thus
ornament
is
but
the
guilèd
shore
To
a
most
dangerous
sea
,
the
beauteous
scarf
Veiling
an
Indian
beauty
;
in
a
word
,
The
seeming
truth
which
cunning
times
put
on
To
entrap
the
wisest
.
Therefore
,
then
,
thou
gaudy
gold
,
Hard
food
for
Midas
,
I
will
none
of
thee
.
Nor
none
of
thee
,
thou
pale
and
common
drudge
’Tween
man
and
man
.
But
thou
,
thou
meager
lead
,
Which
rather
threaten’st
than
dost
promise
aught
,
Thy
paleness
moves
me
more
than
eloquence
,
And
here
choose
I
.
Joy
be
the
consequence
!
What
find
I
here
?
Fair
Portia’s
counterfeit
!
What
demigod
Hath
come
so
near
creation
?
Move
these
eyes
?
Or
whether
,
riding
on
the
balls
of
mine
,
Seem
they
in
motion
?
Here
are
severed
lips
Parted
with
sugar
breath
;
so
sweet
a
bar
Should
sunder
such
sweet
friends
.
Here
in
her
hairs
The
painter
plays
the
spider
,
and
hath
woven
A
golden
mesh
t’
entrap
the
hearts
of
men
Faster
than
gnats
in
cobwebs
.
But
her
eyes
!
How
could
he
see
to
do
them
?
Having
made
one
,
Methinks
it
should
have
power
to
steal
both
his
And
leave
itself
unfurnished
.
Yet
look
how
far
The
substance
of
my
praise
doth
wrong
this
shadow
In
underprizing
it
,
so
far
this
shadow
Doth
limp
behind
the
substance
.
Here’s
the
scroll
,
The
continent
and
summary
of
my
fortune
.
You
that
choose
not
by
the
view
Chance
as
fair
and
choose
as
true
.
Since
this
fortune
falls
to
you
,
Be
content
and
seek
no
new
.
If
you
be
well
pleased
with
this
And
hold
your
fortune
for
your
bliss
,
Turn
you
where
your
lady
is
,
And
claim
her
with
a
loving
kiss
.
A
gentle
scroll
!
Fair
lady
,
by
your
leave
,
I
come
by
note
to
give
and
to
receive
.
Like
one
of
two
contending
in
a
prize
That
thinks
he
hath
done
well
in
people’s
eyes
,
Hearing
applause
and
universal
shout
,
Giddy
in
spirit
,
still
gazing
in
a
doubt
Whether
those
peals
of
praise
be
his
or
no
,
So
,
thrice-fair
lady
,
stand
I
even
so
,
As
doubtful
whether
what
I
see
be
true
,
Until
confirmed
,
signed
,
ratified
by
you
.
Madam
,
you
have
bereft
me
of
all
words
.
Only
my
blood
speaks
to
you
in
my
veins
,
And
there
is
such
confusion
in
my
powers
As
after
some
oration
fairly
spoke
By
a
belovèd
prince
there
doth
appear
Among
the
buzzing
pleasèd
multitude
,
Where
every
something
being
blent
together
Turns
to
a
wild
of
nothing
,
save
of
joy
Expressed
and
not
expressed
.
But
when
this
ring
Parts
from
this
finger
,
then
parts
life
from
hence
.
O
,
then
be
bold
to
say
Bassanio’s
dead
!
I
thank
your
Lordship
,
you
have
got
me
one
.
My
eyes
,
my
lord
,
can
look
as
swift
as
yours
:
You
saw
the
mistress
,
I
beheld
the
maid
.
You
loved
,
I
loved
;
for
intermission
No
more
pertains
to
me
,
my
lord
,
than
you
.
Your
fortune
stood
upon
the
caskets
there
,
And
so
did
mine
,
too
,
as
the
matter
falls
.
For
wooing
here
until
I
sweat
again
,
And
swearing
till
my
very
roof
was
dry
With
oaths
of
love
,
at
last
(
if
promise
last
)
I
got
a
promise
of
this
fair
one
here
To
have
her
love
,
provided
that
your
fortune
Achieved
her
mistress
.
O
sweet
Portia
,
Here
are
a
few
of
the
unpleasant’st
words
That
ever
blotted
paper
.
Gentle
lady
,
When
I
did
first
impart
my
love
to
you
,
I
freely
told
you
all
the
wealth
I
had
Ran
in
my
veins
:
I
was
a
gentleman
.
And
then
I
told
you
true
;
and
yet
,
dear
lady
,
Rating
myself
at
nothing
,
you
shall
see
How
much
I
was
a
braggart
.
When
I
told
you
My
state
was
nothing
,
I
should
then
have
told
you
That
I
was
worse
than
nothing
;
for
indeed
I
have
engaged
myself
to
a
dear
friend
,
Engaged
my
friend
to
his
mere
enemy
To
feed
my
means
.
Here
is
a
letter
,
lady
,
The
paper
as
the
body
of
my
friend
,
And
every
word
in
it
a
gaping
wound
Issuing
life
blood
.
—
But
is
it
true
,
Salerio
?
Hath
all
his
ventures
failed
?
What
,
not
one
hit
?
From
Tripolis
,
from
Mexico
and
England
,
From
Lisbon
,
Barbary
,
and
India
,
And
not
one
vessel
’scape
the
dreadful
touch
Of
merchant-marring
rocks
?
Jailer
,
look
to
him
.
Tell
not
me
of
mercy
.
This
is
the
fool
that
lent
out
money
gratis
.
Jailer
,
look
to
him
.
The
Duke
cannot
deny
the
course
of
law
,
For
the
commodity
that
strangers
have
With
us
in
Venice
,
if
it
be
denied
,
Will
much
impeach
the
justice
of
the
state
,
Since
that
the
trade
and
profit
of
the
city
Consisteth
of
all
nations
.
Therefore
go
.
These
griefs
and
losses
have
so
bated
me
That
I
shall
hardly
spare
a
pound
of
flesh
Tomorrow
to
my
bloody
creditor
.
—
Well
,
jailer
,
on
.
—
Pray
God
Bassanio
come
To
see
me
pay
his
debt
,
and
then
I
care
not
.
I
thank
you
for
your
wish
,
and
am
well
pleased
To
wish
it
back
on
you
.
Fare
you
well
,
Jessica
.
Now
,
Balthazar
,
As
I
have
ever
found
thee
honest
true
,
So
let
me
find
thee
still
:
take
this
same
letter
,
And
use
thou
all
th’
endeavor
of
a
man
In
speed
to
Padua
.
See
thou
render
this
Into
my
cousin’s
hands
,
Doctor
Bellario
.
And
look
what
notes
and
garments
he
doth
give
thee
,
Bring
them
,
I
pray
thee
,
with
imagined
speed
Unto
the
traject
,
to
the
common
ferry
Which
trades
to
Venice
.
Waste
no
time
in
words
,
But
get
thee
gone
.
I
shall
be
there
before
thee
.
Yes
,
truly
,
for
look
you
,
the
sins
of
the
father
are
to
be
laid
upon
the
children
.
Therefore
I
promise
you
I
fear
you
.
I
was
always
plain
with
you
,
and
so
now
I
speak
my
agitation
of
the
matter
.
Therefore
be
o’
good
cheer
,
for
truly
I
think
you
are
damned
.
There
is
but
one
hope
in
it
that
can
do
you
any
good
,
and
that
is
but
a
kind
of
bastard
hope
neither
.
Make
room
,
and
let
him
stand
before
our
face
.
—
Shylock
,
the
world
thinks
,
and
I
think
so
too
,
That
thou
but
leadest
this
fashion
of
thy
malice
To
the
last
hour
of
act
,
and
then
,
’tis
thought
,
Thou
’lt
show
thy
mercy
and
remorse
more
strange
Than
is
thy
strange
apparent
cruelty
;
And
where
thou
now
exacts
the
penalty
,
Which
is
a
pound
of
this
poor
merchant’s
flesh
,
Thou
wilt
not
only
loose
the
forfeiture
,
But
,
touched
with
humane
gentleness
and
love
,
Forgive
a
moi’ty
of
the
principal
,
Glancing
an
eye
of
pity
on
his
losses
That
have
of
late
so
huddled
on
his
back
,
Enow
to
press
a
royal
merchant
down
And
pluck
commiseration
of
his
state
From
brassy
bosoms
and
rough
hearts
of
flint
,
From
stubborn
Turks
,
and
Tartars
never
trained
To
offices
of
tender
courtesy
.
We
all
expect
a
gentle
answer
,
Jew
.
I
pray
you
,
think
you
question
with
the
Jew
.
You
may
as
well
go
stand
upon
the
beach
And
bid
the
main
flood
bate
his
usual
height
;
You
may
as
well
use
question
with
the
wolf
Why
he
hath
made
the
ewe
bleat
for
the
lamb
;
You
may
as
well
forbid
the
mountain
pines
To
wag
their
high
tops
and
to
make
no
noise
When
they
are
fretten
with
the
gusts
of
heaven
;
You
may
as
well
do
anything
most
hard
As
seek
to
soften
that
than
which
what’s
harder
?
—
His
Jewish
heart
.
Therefore
I
do
beseech
you
Make
no
more
offers
,
use
no
farther
means
,
But
with
all
brief
and
plain
conveniency
Let
me
have
judgment
and
the
Jew
his
will
.
Good
cheer
,
Antonio
!
What
,
man
,
courage
yet
!
The
Jew
shall
have
my
flesh
,
blood
,
bones
,
and
all
Ere
thou
shalt
lose
for
me
one
drop
of
blood
!
O
,
be
thou
damned
,
inexecrable
dog
,
And
for
thy
life
let
justice
be
accused
;
Thou
almost
mak’st
me
waver
in
my
faith
,
To
hold
opinion
with
Pythagoras
That
souls
of
animals
infuse
themselves
Into
the
trunks
of
men
.
Thy
currish
spirit
Governed
a
wolf
who
,
hanged
for
human
slaughter
,
Even
from
the
gallows
did
his
fell
soul
fleet
,
And
whilst
thou
layest
in
thy
unhallowed
dam
,
Infused
itself
in
thee
,
for
thy
desires
Are
wolfish
,
bloody
,
starved
,
and
ravenous
.
I
pray
you
let
me
look
upon
the
bond
.
’Tis
very
true
.
O
wise
and
upright
judge
,
How
much
more
elder
art
thou
than
thy
looks
!
Tarry
a
little
.
There
is
something
else
.
This
bond
doth
give
thee
here
no
jot
of
blood
.
The
words
expressly
are
a
pound
of
flesh
.
Take
then
thy
bond
,
take
thou
thy
pound
of
flesh
,
But
in
the
cutting
it
,
if
thou
dost
shed
One
drop
of
Christian
blood
,
thy
lands
and
goods
Are
by
the
laws
of
Venice
confiscate
Unto
the
state
of
Venice
.
Therefore
prepare
thee
to
cut
off
the
flesh
.
Shed
thou
no
blood
,
nor
cut
thou
less
nor
more
But
just
a
pound
of
flesh
.
If
thou
tak’st
more
Or
less
than
a
just
pound
,
be
it
but
so
much
As
makes
it
light
or
heavy
in
the
substance
Or
the
division
of
the
twentieth
part
Of
one
poor
scruple
—
nay
,
if
the
scale
do
turn
But
in
the
estimation
of
a
hair
,
Thou
diest
,
and
all
thy
goods
are
confiscate
.
Let’s
in
,
and
there
expect
their
coming
.
And
yet
no
matter
;
why
should
we
go
in
?
—
My
friend
Stephano
,
signify
,
I
pray
you
,
Within
the
house
,
your
mistress
is
at
hand
,
And
bring
your
music
forth
into
the
air
.
How
sweet
the
moonlight
sleeps
upon
this
bank
.
Here
will
we
sit
and
let
the
sounds
of
music
Creep
in
our
ears
;
soft
stillness
and
the
night
Become
the
touches
of
sweet
harmony
.
Sit
,
Jessica
.
Look
how
the
floor
of
heaven
Is
thick
inlaid
with
patens
of
bright
gold
.
There’s
not
the
smallest
orb
which
thou
behold’st
But
in
his
motion
like
an
angel
sings
,
Still
choiring
to
the
young-eyed
cherubins
.
Such
harmony
is
in
immortal
souls
,
But
whilst
this
muddy
vesture
of
decay
Doth
grossly
close
it
in
,
we
cannot
hear
it
.
Come
,
ho
!
and
wake
Diana
with
a
hymn
.
With
sweetest
touches
pierce
your
mistress’
ear
,
And
draw
her
home
with
music
.
The
reason
is
,
your
spirits
are
attentive
.
For
do
but
note
a
wild
and
wanton
herd
Or
race
of
youthful
and
unhandled
colts
,
Fetching
mad
bounds
,
bellowing
and
neighing
loud
,
Which
is
the
hot
condition
of
their
blood
,
If
they
but
hear
perchance
a
trumpet
sound
,
Or
any
air
of
music
touch
their
ears
,
You
shall
perceive
them
make
a
mutual
stand
,
Their
savage
eyes
turned
to
a
modest
gaze
By
the
sweet
power
of
music
.
Therefore
the
poet
Did
feign
that
Orpheus
drew
trees
,
stones
,
and
floods
,
Since
naught
so
stockish
,
hard
,
and
full
of
rage
,
But
music
for
the
time
doth
change
his
nature
.
The
man
that
hath
no
music
in
himself
,
Nor
is
not
moved
with
concord
of
sweet
sounds
,
Is
fit
for
treasons
,
stratagems
,
and
spoils
;
The
motions
of
his
spirit
are
dull
as
night
,
And
his
affections
dark
as
Erebus
.
Let
no
such
man
be
trusted
.
Mark
the
music
.
This
night
methinks
is
but
the
daylight
sick
;
It
looks
a
little
paler
.
’Tis
a
day
Such
as
the
day
is
when
the
sun
is
hid
.
It
is
not
meet
the
Council
hear
a
riot
.
There
is
no
fear
of
Got
in
a
riot
.
The
Council
,
look
you
,
shall
desire
to
hear
the
fear
of
Got
,
and
not
to
hear
a
riot
.
Take
your
visaments
in
that
.
I
love
the
sport
well
,
but
I
shall
as
soon
quarrel
at
it
as
any
man
in
England
.
You
are
afraid
if
you
see
the
bear
loose
,
are
you
not
?
That’s
meat
and
drink
to
me
,
now
.
I
have
seen
Sackerson
loose
twenty
times
,
and
have
taken
him
by
the
chain
.
But
,
I
warrant
you
,
the
women
have
so
cried
and
shrieked
at
it
that
it
passed
.
But
women
,
indeed
,
cannot
abide
’em
;
they
are
very
ill-favored
rough
things
.
I
am
glad
he
is
so
quiet
.
If
he
had
been
throughly
moved
,
you
should
have
heard
him
so
loud
and
so
melancholy
.
But
notwithstanding
,
man
,
I’ll
do
you
your
master
what
good
I
can
.
And
the
very
yea
and
the
no
is
,
the
French
doctor
,
my
master
—
I
may
call
him
my
master
,
look
you
,
for
I
keep
his
house
,
and
I
wash
,
wring
,
brew
,
bake
,
scour
,
dress
meat
and
drink
,
make
the
beds
,
and
do
all
myself
—
And
,
trust
me
,
I
was
coming
to
you
.
You
look
very
ill
.
Why
,
look
where
he
comes
,
and
my
good
man
too
.
He’s
as
far
from
jealousy
as
I
am
from
giving
him
cause
,
and
that
,
I
hope
,
is
an
unmeasurable
distance
.
Have
with
you
.
—
You’ll
come
to
dinner
,
George
?
Look
who
comes
yonder
.
She
shall
be
our
messenger
to
this
paltry
knight
.
Ay
,
marry
,
does
he
.
If
he
should
intend
this
voyage
toward
my
wife
,
I
would
turn
her
loose
to
him
;
and
what
he
gets
more
of
her
than
sharp
words
,
let
it
lie
on
my
head
.
Look
where
my
ranting
Host
of
the
Garter
comes
.
There
is
either
liquor
in
his
pate
or
money
in
his
purse
when
he
looks
so
merrily
.
—
How
now
,
mine
Host
?
Though
Page
be
a
secure
fool
and
stands
so
firmly
on
his
wife’s
frailty
,
yet
I
cannot
put
off
my
opinion
so
easily
.
She
was
in
his
company
at
Page’s
house
,
and
what
they
made
there
I
know
not
.
Well
,
I
will
look
further
into
’t
,
and
I
have
a
disguise
to
sound
Falstaff
.
If
I
find
her
honest
,
I
lose
not
my
labor
.
If
she
be
otherwise
,
’tis
labor
well
bestowed
.
Not
a
penny
.
I
have
been
content
,
sir
,
you
should
lay
my
countenance
to
pawn
.
I
have
grated
upon
my
good
friends
for
three
reprieves
for
you
and
your
coach-fellow
Nym
,
or
else
you
had
looked
through
the
grate
like
a
gemini
of
baboons
.
I
am
damned
in
hell
for
swearing
to
gentlemen
my
friends
you
were
good
soldiers
and
tall
fellows
.
And
when
Mistress
Bridget
lost
the
handle
of
her
fan
,
I
took
’t
upon
mine
honor
thou
hadst
it
not
.
Reason
,
you
rogue
,
reason
.
Think’st
thou
I’ll
endanger
my
soul
gratis
?
At
a
word
,
hang
no
more
about
me
.
I
am
no
gibbet
for
you
.
Go
—
a
short
knife
and
a
throng
—
to
your
manor
of
Pickt-hatch
,
go
.
You’ll
not
bear
a
letter
for
me
,
you
rogue
?
You
stand
upon
your
honor
?
Why
,
thou
unconfinable
baseness
,
it
is
as
much
as
I
can
do
to
keep
the
terms
of
my
honor
precise
.
Ay
,
ay
,
I
myself
sometimes
,
leaving
the
fear
of
God
on
the
left
hand
and
hiding
mine
honor
in
my
necessity
,
am
fain
to
shuffle
,
to
hedge
,
and
to
lurch
;
and
yet
you
,
rogue
,
will
ensconce
your
rags
,
your
cat-a-mountain
looks
,
your
red-lattice
phrases
,
and
your
bold
beating
oaths
under
the
shelter
of
your
honor
!
You
will
not
do
it
?
You
?
Nay
,
but
do
so
then
,
and
,
look
you
,
he
may
come
and
go
between
you
both
.
And
in
any
case
have
a
nayword
,
that
you
may
know
one
another’s
mind
,
and
the
boy
never
need
to
understand
anything
;
for
’tis
not
good
that
children
should
know
any
wickedness
.
Old
folks
,
you
know
,
have
discretion
,
as
they
say
,
and
know
the
world
.
Sayst
thou
so
,
old
Jack
?
Go
thy
ways
.
I’ll
make
more
of
thy
old
body
than
I
have
done
.
Will
they
yet
look
after
thee
?
Wilt
thou
,
after
the
expense
of
so
much
money
,
be
now
a
gainer
?
Good
body
,
I
thank
thee
.
Let
them
say
’tis
grossly
done
;
so
it
be
fairly
done
,
no
matter
.
O
,
understand
my
drift
.
She
dwells
so
securely
on
the
excellency
of
her
honor
that
the
folly
of
my
soul
dares
not
present
itself
;
she
is
too
bright
to
be
looked
against
.
Now
,
could
I
come
to
her
with
any
detection
in
my
hand
,
my
desires
had
instance
and
argument
to
commend
themselves
.
I
could
drive
her
then
from
the
ward
of
her
purity
,
her
reputation
,
her
marriage
vow
,
and
a
thousand
other
her
defenses
,
which
now
are
too
too
strongly
embattled
against
me
.
What
say
you
to
’t
,
Sir
John
?
By
gar
,
me
do
look
he
shall
clapper-de-claw
me
,
for
,
by
gar
,
me
vill
have
it
.
I
pray
you
now
,
good
Master
Slender’s
servingman
and
friend
Simple
by
your
name
,
which
way
have
you
looked
for
Master
Caius
,
that
calls
himself
doctor
of
physic
?
I
most
fehemently
desire
you
,
you
will
also
look
that
way
.
As
I
am
a
Christians
soul
,
now
look
you
,
this
is
the
place
appointed
.
I’ll
be
judgment
by
mine
Host
of
the
Garter
.
Mistress
Ford
,
Mistress
Ford
!
Here’s
Mistress
Page
at
the
door
,
sweating
and
blowing
and
looking
wildly
,
and
would
needs
speak
with
you
presently
.
For
shame
!
Never
stand
you
had
rather
and
you
had
rather
.
Your
husband’s
here
at
hand
.
Bethink
you
of
some
conveyance
.
In
the
house
you
cannot
hide
him
.
O
,
how
have
you
deceived
me
!
Look
,
here
is
a
basket
.
If
he
be
of
any
reasonable
stature
,
he
may
creep
in
here
;
and
throw
foul
linen
upon
him
,
as
if
it
were
going
to
bucking
.
Or
—
it
is
whiting
time
—
send
him
by
your
two
men
to
Datchet
Mead
.
What
,
John
!
Robert
!
John
!
Go
,
take
up
these
clothes
here
quickly
.
Where’s
the
cowlstaff
?
Look
how
you
drumble
!
Carry
them
to
the
laundress
in
Datchet
Mead
.
Quickly
!
Come
.
I
come
to
him
.
This
is
my
father’s
choice
.
O
,
what
a
world
of
vile
ill-favored
faults
Looks
handsome
in
three
hundred
pounds
a
year
!
This
is
my
doing
now
.
Nay
,
said
I
,
will
you
cast
away
your
child
on
a
fool
and
a
physician
?
Look
on
Master
Fenton
.
This
is
my
doing
.
Go
fetch
me
a
quart
of
sack
;
put
a
toast
in
’t
.
Have
I
lived
to
be
carried
in
a
basket
like
a
barrow
of
butcher’s
offal
,
and
to
be
thrown
in
the
Thames
?
Well
,
if
I
be
served
such
another
trick
,
I’ll
have
my
brains
ta’en
out
and
buttered
,
and
give
them
to
a
dog
for
a
New
Year’s
gift
.
’Sblood
,
the
rogues
slighted
me
into
the
river
with
as
little
remorse
as
they
would
have
drowned
a
blind
bitch’s
puppies
,
fifteen
i’
th’
litter
!
And
you
may
know
by
my
size
that
I
have
a
kind
of
alacrity
in
sinking
;
if
the
bottom
were
as
deep
as
hell
,
I
should
down
.
I
had
been
drowned
,
but
that
the
shore
was
shelvy
and
shallow
—
a
death
that
I
abhor
,
for
the
water
swells
a
man
,
and
what
a
thing
should
I
have
been
when
I
had
been
swelled
!
By
the
Lord
,
I
should
have
been
a
mountain
of
mummy
.
I’ll
be
with
her
by
and
by
.
I’ll
but
bring
my
young
man
here
to
school
.
Look
where
his
master
comes
.
’Tis
a
playing
day
,
I
see
.
—
How
now
,
Sir
Hugh
,
no
school
today
?
Go
,
go
,
sweet
Sir
John
.
Mistress
Page
and
I
will
look
some
linen
for
your
head
.
Why
,
this
passes
,
Master
Ford
!
You
are
not
to
go
loose
any
longer
;
you
must
be
pinioned
.
’Tis
one
of
the
best
discretions
of
a
’oman
as
ever
I
did
look
upon
.
There
is
an
old
tale
goes
that
Herne
the
Hunter
,
Sometime
a
keeper
here
in
Windsor
Forest
,
Doth
all
the
wintertime
,
at
still
midnight
,
Walk
round
about
an
oak
,
with
great
ragged
horns
,
And
there
he
blasts
the
tree
,
and
takes
the
cattle
,
And
makes
milch-kine
yield
blood
,
and
shakes
a
chain
In
a
most
hideous
and
dreadful
manner
.
You
have
heard
of
such
a
spirit
,
and
well
you
know
The
superstitious
idle-headed
eld
Received
and
did
deliver
to
our
age
This
tale
of
Herne
the
Hunter
for
a
truth
.
Have
a
care
of
your
entertainments
.
There
is
a
friend
of
mine
come
to
town
tells
me
there
is
three
cozen-Germans
that
has
cozened
all
the
hosts
of
Readings
,
of
Maidenhead
,
of
Colnbrook
,
of
horses
and
money
.
I
tell
you
for
good
will
,
look
you
.
You
are
wise
,
and
full
of
gibes
and
vlouting-stocks
,
and
’tis
not
convenient
you
should
be
cozened
.
Fare
you
well
.
From
time
to
time
I
have
acquainted
you
With
the
dear
love
I
bear
to
fair
Anne
Page
,
Who
mutually
hath
answered
my
affection
,
So
far
forth
as
herself
might
be
her
chooser
,
Even
to
my
wish
.
I
have
a
letter
from
her
Of
such
contents
as
you
will
wonder
at
,
The
mirth
whereof
so
larded
with
my
matter
That
neither
singly
can
be
manifested
Without
the
show
of
both
.
Fat
Falstaff
Hath
a
great
scene
;
the
image
of
the
jest
I’ll
show
you
here
at
large
.
Hark
,
good
mine
Host
:
Tonight
at
Herne’s
oak
,
just
’twixt
twelve
and
one
,
Must
my
sweet
Nan
present
the
Fairy
Queen
—
The
purpose
why
is
here
—
in
which
disguise
,
While
other
jests
are
something
rank
on
foot
,
Her
father
hath
commanded
her
to
slip
Away
with
Slender
,
and
with
him
at
Eton
Immediately
to
marry
.
She
hath
consented
.
Now
,
sir
,
Her
mother
,
ever
strong
against
that
match
And
firm
for
Doctor
Caius
,
hath
appointed
That
he
shall
likewise
shuffle
her
away
,
While
other
sports
are
tasking
of
their
minds
,
And
at
the
dean’ry
,
where
a
priest
attends
,
Straight
marry
her
.
To
this
her
mother’s
plot
She
,
seemingly
obedient
,
likewise
hath
Made
promise
to
the
doctor
.
Now
,
thus
it
rests
:
Her
father
means
she
shall
be
all
in
white
,
And
in
that
habit
,
when
Slender
sees
his
time
To
take
her
by
the
hand
and
bid
her
go
,
She
shall
go
with
him
.
Her
mother
hath
intended
The
better
to
denote
her
to
the
doctor
—
For
they
must
all
be
masked
and
vizarded
—
That
quaint
in
green
she
shall
be
loose
enrobed
,
With
ribbons
pendent
flaring
’bout
her
head
;
And
when
the
doctor
spies
his
vantage
ripe
,
To
pinch
her
by
the
hand
,
and
on
that
token
The
maid
hath
given
consent
to
go
with
him
.
The
Windsor
bell
hath
struck
twelve
.
The
minute
draws
on
.
Now
,
the
hot-blooded
gods
assist
me
!
Remember
,
Jove
,
thou
wast
a
bull
for
thy
Europa
;
love
set
on
thy
horns
.
O
powerful
love
,
that
in
some
respects
makes
a
beast
a
man
,
in
some
other
a
man
a
beast
!
You
were
also
,
Jupiter
,
a
swan
for
the
love
of
Leda
.
O
omnipotent
love
,
how
near
the
god
drew
to
the
complexion
of
a
goose
!
A
fault
done
first
in
the
form
of
a
beast
;
O
Jove
,
a
beastly
fault
!
And
then
another
fault
in
the
semblance
of
a
fowl
;
think
on
’t
,
Jove
,
a
foul
fault
.
When
gods
have
hot
backs
,
what
shall
poor
men
do
?
For
me
,
I
am
here
a
Windsor
stag
,
and
the
fattest
,
I
think
,
i’
th’
forest
.
Send
me
a
cool
rut-time
,
Jove
,
or
who
can
blame
me
to
piss
my
tallow
?
Who
comes
here
?
My
doe
?
About
,
about
!
Search
Windsor
Castle
,
elves
,
within
and
out
.
Strew
good
luck
,
aufs
,
on
every
sacred
room
,
That
it
may
stand
till
the
perpetual
doom
In
state
as
wholesome
as
in
state
’tis
fit
,
Worthy
the
owner
,
and
the
owner
it
.
The
several
chairs
of
order
look
you
scour
With
juice
of
balm
and
every
precious
flower
.
Each
fair
installment
,
coat
,
and
sev’ral
crest
With
loyal
blazon
evermore
be
blest
!
And
nightly
,
meadow
fairies
,
look
you
sing
,
Like
to
the
Garter’s
compass
,
in
a
ring
.
Th’
expressure
that
it
bears
,
green
let
it
be
,
More
fertile-fresh
than
all
the
field
to
see
;
And
Honi
soit
qui
mal
y
pense
write
In
em’rald
tufts
,
flowers
purple
,
blue
,
and
white
,
Like
sapphire
,
pearl
,
and
rich
embroidery
,
Buckled
below
fair
knighthood’s
bending
knee
.
Fairies
use
flowers
for
their
charactery
.
Away
,
disperse
!
But
till
’tis
one
o’clock
,
Our
dance
of
custom
round
about
the
oak
Of
Herne
the
Hunter
let
us
not
forget
.
Vile
worm
,
thou
wast
o’erlooked
even
in
thy
birth
.
Fie
on
sinful
fantasy
!
Fie
on
lust
and
luxury
!
Lust
is
but
a
bloody
fire
Kindled
with
unchaste
desire
,
Fed
in
heart
whose
flames
aspire
As
thoughts
do
blow
them
higher
and
higher
.
Pinch
him
,
fairies
,
mutually
;
Pinch
him
for
his
villainy
.
Pinch
him
and
burn
him
and
turn
him
about
,
Till
candles
and
starlight
and
moonshine
be
out
.
You’re
a
baggage
!
The
Slys
are
no
rogues
.
Look
in
the
chronicles
.
We
came
in
with
Richard
Conqueror
.
Therefore
,
paucas
pallabris
,
let
the
world
slide
.
Sessa
!
Thou
art
a
fool
.
If
Echo
were
as
fleet
,
I
would
esteem
him
worth
a
dozen
such
.
But
sup
them
well
,
and
look
unto
them
all
.
Tomorrow
I
intend
to
hunt
again
.
I
am
Christophero
Sly
!
Call
not
me
Honor
nor
Lordship
.
I
ne’er
drank
sack
in
my
life
.
An
if
you
give
me
any
conserves
,
give
me
conserves
of
beef
.
Ne’er
ask
me
what
raiment
I’ll
wear
,
for
I
have
no
more
doublets
than
backs
,
no
more
stockings
than
legs
,
nor
no
more
shoes
than
feet
,
nay
sometime
more
feet
than
shoes
,
or
such
shoes
as
my
toes
look
through
the
over-leather
.
Hence
comes
it
that
your
kindred
shuns
your
house
,
As
beaten
hence
by
your
strange
lunacy
.
O
noble
lord
,
bethink
thee
of
thy
birth
,
Call
home
thy
ancient
thoughts
from
banishment
,
And
banish
hence
these
abject
lowly
dreams
.
Look
how
thy
servants
do
attend
on
thee
,
Each
in
his
office
ready
at
thy
beck
.
Wilt
thou
have
music
?
Hark
,
Apollo
plays
,
And
twenty
cagèd
nightingales
do
sing
.
Or
wilt
thou
sleep
?
We’ll
have
thee
to
a
couch
Softer
and
sweeter
than
the
lustful
bed
On
purpose
trimmed
up
for
Semiramis
.
Say
thou
wilt
walk
,
we
will
bestrew
the
ground
.
Or
wilt
thou
ride
?
Thy
horses
shall
be
trapped
,
Their
harness
studded
all
with
gold
and
pearl
.
Dost
thou
love
hawking
?
Thou
hast
hawks
will
soar
Above
the
morning
lark
.
Or
wilt
thou
hunt
?
Thy
hounds
shall
make
the
welkin
answer
them
And
fetch
shrill
echoes
from
the
hollow
earth
.
Or
Daphne
roaming
through
a
thorny
wood
,
Scratching
her
legs
that
one
shall
swear
she
bleeds
,
And
at
that
sight
shall
sad
Apollo
weep
,
So
workmanly
the
blood
and
tears
are
drawn
.
And
till
the
tears
that
she
hath
shed
for
thee
Like
envious
floods
o’errun
her
lovely
face
,
She
was
the
fairest
creature
in
the
world
—
And
yet
she
is
inferior
to
none
.
Ay
,
it
stands
so
that
I
may
hardly
tarry
so
long
;
but
I
would
be
loath
to
fall
into
my
dreams
again
.
I
will
therefore
tarry
in
despite
of
the
flesh
and
the
blood
.
Your
Honor’s
players
,
hearing
your
amendment
,
Are
come
to
play
a
pleasant
comedy
,
For
so
your
doctors
hold
it
very
meet
,
Seeing
too
much
sadness
hath
congealed
your
blood
,
And
melancholy
is
the
nurse
of
frenzy
.
Therefore
they
thought
it
good
you
hear
a
play
And
frame
your
mind
to
mirth
and
merriment
,
Which
bars
a
thousand
harms
and
lengthens
life
.
Gramercies
,
Tranio
,
well
dost
thou
advise
.
If
,
Biondello
,
thou
wert
come
ashore
,
We
could
at
once
put
us
in
readiness
And
take
a
lodging
fit
to
entertain
Such
friends
as
time
in
Padua
shall
beget
.
But
stay
awhile
!
What
company
is
this
?
Sister
,
content
you
in
my
discontent
.
—
Sir
,
to
your
pleasure
humbly
I
subscribe
.
My
books
and
instruments
shall
be
my
company
,
On
them
to
look
and
practice
by
myself
.
O
Tranio
,
till
I
found
it
to
be
true
,
I
never
thought
it
possible
or
likely
.
But
see
,
while
idly
I
stood
looking
on
,
I
found
the
effect
of
love-in-idleness
,
And
now
in
plainness
do
confess
to
thee
That
art
to
me
as
secret
and
as
dear
As
Anna
to
the
Queen
of
Carthage
was
:
Tranio
,
I
burn
,
I
pine
!
I
perish
,
Tranio
,
If
I
achieve
not
this
young
modest
girl
.
Counsel
me
,
Tranio
,
for
I
know
thou
canst
.
Assist
me
,
Tranio
,
for
I
know
thou
wilt
.
Master
,
you
looked
so
longly
on
the
maid
,
Perhaps
you
marked
not
what’s
the
pith
of
all
.
Nay
,
’tis
no
matter
,
sir
,
what
he
’leges
in
Latin
.
If
this
be
not
a
lawful
cause
for
me
to
leave
his
service
—
look
you
,
sir
:
he
bid
me
knock
him
and
rap
him
soundly
,
sir
.
Well
,
was
it
fit
for
a
servant
to
use
his
master
so
,
being
perhaps
,
for
aught
I
see
,
two-and-thirty
,
a
pip
out
?
Whom
,
would
to
God
,
I
had
well
knocked
at
first
,
Then
had
not
Grumio
come
by
the
worst
.
Nay
,
look
you
,
sir
,
he
tells
you
flatly
what
his
mind
is
.
Why
,
give
him
gold
enough
and
marry
him
to
a
puppet
or
an
aglet-baby
,
or
an
old
trot
with
ne’er
a
tooth
in
her
head
,
though
she
have
as
many
diseases
as
two-and-fifty
horses
.
Why
,
nothing
comes
amiss
,
so
money
comes
withal
.
Here’s
no
knavery
!
See
,
to
beguile
the
old
folks
,
how
the
young
folks
lay
their
heads
together
!
Master
,
master
,
look
about
you
.
Who
goes
there
,
ha
?
How
now
,
my
friend
,
why
dost
thou
look
so
pale
?
For
fear
,
I
promise
you
,
if
I
look
pale
.
Why
,
no
,
for
she
hath
broke
the
lute
to
me
.
I
did
but
tell
her
she
mistook
her
frets
,
And
bowed
her
hand
to
teach
her
fingering
,
When
,
with
a
most
impatient
devilish
spirit
,
Frets
call
you
these
?
quoth
she
.
I’ll
fume
with
them
!
And
with
that
word
she
struck
me
on
the
head
,
And
through
the
instrument
my
pate
made
way
,
And
there
I
stood
amazèd
for
a
while
,
As
on
a
pillory
,
looking
through
the
lute
,
While
she
did
call
me
rascal
fiddler
,
And
twangling
Jack
,
with
twenty
such
vile
terms
,
As
had
she
studied
to
misuse
me
so
.
I
pray
you
do
.
I’ll
attend
her
here
—
And
woo
her
with
some
spirit
when
she
comes
!
Say
that
she
rail
,
why
then
I’ll
tell
her
plain
She
sings
as
sweetly
as
a
nightingale
.
Say
that
she
frown
,
I’ll
say
she
looks
as
clear
As
morning
roses
newly
washed
with
dew
.
Say
she
be
mute
and
will
not
speak
a
word
,
Then
I’ll
commend
her
volubility
And
say
she
uttereth
piercing
eloquence
.
If
she
do
bid
me
pack
,
I’ll
give
her
thanks
As
though
she
bid
me
stay
by
her
a
week
.
If
she
deny
to
wed
,
I’ll
crave
the
day
When
I
shall
ask
the
banns
,
and
when
be
marrièd
.
But
here
she
comes
—
and
now
,
Petruchio
,
speak
.
Good
morrow
,
Kate
,
for
that’s
your
name
,
I
hear
.
Nay
,
come
,
Kate
,
come
.
You
must
not
look
so
sour
.
Why
,
here’s
no
crab
,
and
therefore
look
not
sour
.
No
,
not
a
whit
.
I
find
you
passing
gentle
.
’Twas
told
me
you
were
rough
,
and
coy
,
and
sullen
,
And
now
I
find
report
a
very
liar
.
For
thou
art
pleasant
,
gamesome
,
passing
courteous
,
But
slow
in
speech
,
yet
sweet
as
springtime
flowers
.
Thou
canst
not
frown
,
thou
canst
not
look
askance
,
Nor
bite
the
lip
as
angry
wenches
will
,
Nor
hast
thou
pleasure
to
be
cross
in
talk
.
But
thou
with
mildness
entertain’st
thy
wooers
,
With
gentle
conference
,
soft
,
and
affable
.
Why
does
the
world
report
that
Kate
doth
limp
?
O
sland’rous
world
!
Kate
like
the
hazel
twig
Is
straight
,
and
slender
,
and
as
brown
in
hue
As
hazelnuts
hazel
nuts
,
and
sweeter
than
the
kernels
.
O
,
let
me
see
thee
walk
!
Thou
dost
not
halt
.
No
doubt
but
he
hath
got
a
quiet
catch
.
But
now
,
Baptista
,
to
your
younger
daughter
.
Now
is
the
day
we
long
have
lookèd
for
.
I
am
your
neighbor
and
was
suitor
first
.
Hic
ibat
,
as
I
told
you
before
,
Simois
,
I
am
Lucentio
,
hic
est
,
son
unto
Vincentio
of
Pisa
,
Sigeia
tellus
,
disguised
thus
to
get
your
love
,
Hic
steterat
,
and
that
Lucentio
that
comes
a-wooing
,
Priami
,
is
my
man
Tranio
,
regia
,
bearing
my
port
,
celsa
senis
,
that
we
might
beguile
the
old
pantaloon
.
But
I
have
cause
to
pry
into
this
pedant
.
Methinks
he
looks
as
though
he
were
in
love
.
Yet
if
thy
thoughts
,
Bianca
,
be
so
humble
To
cast
thy
wand’ring
eyes
on
every
stale
,
Seize
thee
that
list
!
If
once
I
find
thee
ranging
,
Hortensio
will
be
quit
with
thee
by
changing
.
That
by
degrees
we
mean
to
look
into
,
And
watch
our
vantage
in
this
business
.
We’ll
overreach
the
graybeard
,
Gremio
,
The
narrow
prying
father
,
Minola
,
The
quaint
musician
,
amorous
Litio
,
All
for
my
master’s
sake
,
Lucentio
.
They
shall
go
forward
,
Kate
,
at
thy
command
.
—
Obey
the
bride
,
you
that
attend
on
her
.
Go
to
the
feast
,
revel
and
domineer
,
Carouse
full
measure
to
her
maidenhead
,
Be
mad
and
merry
,
or
go
hang
yourselves
.
But
for
my
bonny
Kate
,
she
must
with
me
.
Nay
,
look
not
big
,
nor
stamp
,
nor
stare
,
nor
fret
;
I
will
be
master
of
what
is
mine
own
.
She
is
my
goods
,
my
chattels
;
she
is
my
house
,
My
household
stuff
,
my
field
,
my
barn
,
My
horse
,
my
ox
,
my
ass
,
my
anything
.
And
here
she
stands
,
touch
her
whoever
dare
.
I’ll
bring
mine
action
on
the
proudest
he
That
stops
my
way
in
Padua
.
—
Grumio
,
Draw
forth
thy
weapon
.
We
are
beset
with
thieves
.
Rescue
thy
mistress
if
thou
be
a
man
!
—
Fear
not
,
sweet
wench
,
they
shall
not
touch
thee
,
Kate
.
I’ll
buckler
thee
against
a
million
.
In
her
chamber
,
Making
a
sermon
of
continency
to
her
,
And
rails
and
swears
and
rates
,
that
she
(
poor
soul
)
Knows
not
which
way
to
stand
,
to
look
,
to
speak
,
And
sits
as
one
new-risen
from
a
dream
.
Away
,
away
,
for
he
is
coming
hither
!
Thus
have
I
politicly
begun
my
reign
,
And
’tis
my
hope
to
end
successfully
.
My
falcon
now
is
sharp
and
passing
empty
,
And
,
till
she
stoop
,
she
must
not
be
full-gorged
,
For
then
she
never
looks
upon
her
lure
.
Another
way
I
have
to
man
my
haggard
,
To
make
her
come
and
know
her
keeper’s
call
.
That
is
,
to
watch
her
,
as
we
watch
these
kites
That
bate
and
beat
and
will
not
be
obedient
.
She
ate
no
meat
today
,
nor
none
shall
eat
.
Last
night
she
slept
not
,
nor
tonight
she
shall
not
.
As
with
the
meat
,
some
undeservèd
undeserved
fault
I’ll
find
about
the
making
of
the
bed
,
And
here
I’ll
fling
the
pillow
,
there
the
bolster
,
This
way
the
coverlet
,
another
way
the
sheets
.
Ay
,
and
amid
this
hurly
I
intend
That
all
is
done
in
reverend
care
of
her
.
And
,
in
conclusion
,
she
shall
watch
all
night
,
And
,
if
she
chance
to
nod
,
I’ll
rail
and
brawl
,
And
with
the
clamor
keep
her
still
awake
.
This
is
a
way
to
kill
a
wife
with
kindness
.
And
thus
I’ll
curb
her
mad
and
headstrong
humor
.
He
that
knows
better
how
to
tame
a
shrew
,
Now
let
him
speak
;
’tis
charity
to
shew
.
Would
all
the
world
but
he
had
quite
forsworn
!
For
me
,
that
I
may
surely
keep
mine
oath
,
I
will
be
married
to
a
wealthy
widow
Ere
three
days
pass
,
which
hath
as
long
loved
me
As
I
have
loved
this
proud
disdainful
haggard
.
And
so
farewell
,
Signior
Lucentio
.
Kindness
in
women
,
not
their
beauteous
looks
,
Shall
win
my
love
,
and
so
I
take
my
leave
,
In
resolution
as
I
swore
before
.
To
save
your
life
in
this
extremity
,
This
favor
will
I
do
you
for
his
sake
(
And
think
it
not
the
worst
of
all
your
fortunes
That
you
are
like
to
Sir
Vincentio
)
:
His
name
and
credit
shall
you
undertake
,
And
in
my
house
you
shall
be
friendly
lodged
.
Look
that
you
take
upon
you
as
you
should
.
You
understand
me
,
sir
.
So
shall
you
stay
Till
you
have
done
your
business
in
the
city
.
If
this
be
court’sy
,
sir
,
accept
of
it
.
Then
go
with
me
,
to
make
the
matter
good
.
This
,
by
the
way
,
I
let
you
understand
:
My
father
is
here
looked
for
every
day
To
pass
assurance
of
a
dower
in
marriage
’Twixt
me
and
one
Baptista’s
daughter
here
.
In
all
these
circumstances
I’ll
instruct
you
.
Go
with
me
to
clothe
you
as
becomes
you
.
Pluck
up
thy
spirits
.
Look
cheerfully
upon
me
.
Here
,
love
,
thou
seest
how
diligent
I
am
,
To
dress
thy
meat
myself
and
bring
it
thee
.
I
am
sure
,
sweet
Kate
,
this
kindness
merits
thanks
.
What
,
not
a
word
?
Nay
then
,
thou
lov’st
it
not
,
And
all
my
pains
is
sorted
to
no
proof
.
Here
,
take
away
this
dish
.
Imprimis , a loose-bodied gown —
Master
,
if
ever
I
said
loose-bodied
gown
,
sew
me
in
the
skirts
of
it
and
beat
me
to
death
with
a
bottom
of
brown
thread
.
I
said
a
gown
.
It
shall
be
seven
ere
I
go
to
horse
.
Look
what
I
speak
,
or
do
,
or
think
to
do
,
You
are
still
crossing
it
.
—
Sirs
,
let
’t
alone
.
I
will
not
go
today
,
and
,
ere
I
do
,
It
shall
be
what
o’clock
I
say
it
is
.
I
told
him
that
your
father
was
at
Venice
,
And
that
you
looked
for
him
this
day
in
Padua
.
I
cannot
tell
,
except
they
are
busied
about
a
counterfeit
assurance
.
Take
you
assurance
of
her
cum
privilegio
ad
imprimendum
solum
.
To
th’
church
take
the
priest
,
clerk
,
and
some
sufficient
honest
witnesses
.
If
this
be
not
that
you
look
for
,
I
have
no
more
to
say
,
But
bid
Bianca
farewell
forever
and
a
day
.
Pardon
,
old
father
,
my
mistaking
eyes
That
have
been
so
bedazzled
with
the
sun
That
everything
I
look
on
seemeth
green
.
Now
I
perceive
thou
art
a
reverend
father
.
Pardon
,
I
pray
thee
,
for
my
mad
mistaking
.
Thou
liest
.
His
father
is
come
from
Padua
and
here
looking
out
at
the
window
.
What
,
my
old
worshipful
old
master
?
Yes
,
marry
,
sir
.
See
where
he
looks
out
of
the
window
.
Look
not
pale
,
Bianca
.
Thy
father
will
not
frown
.
Fie
,
fie
!
Unknit
that
threat’ning
unkind
brow
,
And
dart
not
scornful
glances
from
those
eyes
To
wound
thy
lord
,
thy
king
,
thy
governor
.
It
blots
thy
beauty
as
frosts
do
bite
the
meads
,
Confounds
thy
fame
as
whirlwinds
shake
fair
buds
,
And
in
no
sense
is
meet
or
amiable
.
A
woman
moved
is
like
a
fountain
troubled
,
Muddy
,
ill-seeming
,
thick
,
bereft
of
beauty
,
And
while
it
is
so
,
none
so
dry
or
thirsty
Will
deign
to
sip
or
touch
one
drop
of
it
.
Thy
husband
is
thy
lord
,
thy
life
,
thy
keeper
,
Thy
head
,
thy
sovereign
,
one
that
cares
for
thee
,
And
for
thy
maintenance
commits
his
body
To
painful
labor
both
by
sea
and
land
,
To
watch
the
night
in
storms
,
the
day
in
cold
,
Whilst
thou
liest
warm
at
home
,
secure
and
safe
,
And
craves
no
other
tribute
at
thy
hands
But
love
,
fair
looks
,
and
true
obedience
—
Too
little
payment
for
so
great
a
debt
.
Such
duty
as
the
subject
owes
the
prince
,
Even
such
a
woman
oweth
to
her
husband
;
And
when
she
is
froward
,
peevish
,
sullen
,
sour
,
And
not
obedient
to
his
honest
will
,
What
is
she
but
a
foul
contending
rebel
And
graceless
traitor
to
her
loving
lord
?
I
am
ashamed
that
women
are
so
simple
To
offer
war
where
they
should
kneel
for
peace
,
Or
seek
for
rule
,
supremacy
,
and
sway
When
they
are
bound
to
serve
,
love
,
and
obey
.
Why
are
our
bodies
soft
and
weak
and
smooth
,
Unapt
to
toil
and
trouble
in
the
world
,
But
that
our
soft
conditions
and
our
hearts
Should
well
agree
with
our
external
parts
?
Come
,
come
,
you
froward
and
unable
worms
!
My
mind
hath
been
as
big
as
one
of
yours
,
My
heart
as
great
,
my
reason
haply
more
,
To
bandy
word
for
word
and
frown
for
frown
;
But
now
I
see
our
lances
are
but
straws
,
Our
strength
as
weak
,
our
weakness
past
compare
,
That
seeming
to
be
most
which
we
indeed
least
are
.
Then
vail
your
stomachs
,
for
it
is
no
boot
,
And
place
your
hands
below
your
husband’s
foot
;
In
token
of
which
duty
,
if
he
please
,
My
hand
is
ready
,
may
it
do
him
ease
.
Well
demanded
,
wench
.
My
tale
provokes
that
question
.
Dear
,
they
durst
not
,
So
dear
the
love
my
people
bore
me
,
nor
set
A
mark
so
bloody
on
the
business
,
but
With
colors
fairer
painted
their
foul
ends
.
In
few
,
they
hurried
us
aboard
a
bark
,
Bore
us
some
leagues
to
sea
,
where
they
prepared
A
rotten
carcass
of
a
butt
,
not
rigged
,
Nor
tackle
,
sail
,
nor
mast
;
the
very
rats
Instinctively
have
quit
it
.
There
they
hoist
us
To
cry
to
th’
sea
that
roared
to
us
,
to
sigh
To
th’
winds
,
whose
pity
,
sighing
back
again
,
Did
us
but
loving
wrong
.
’Tis
a
villain
,
sir
,
I
do
not
love
to
look
on
.
What
is
’t
?
A
spirit
?
Lord
,
how
it
looks
about
!
Believe
me
,
sir
,
It
carries
a
brave
form
.
But
’tis
a
spirit
.
Look
,
he’s
winding
up
the
watch
of
his
wit
.
By
and
by
it
will
strike
.
How
lush
and
lusty
the
grass
looks
!
How
green
!
True
,
And
look
how
well
my
garments
sit
upon
me
,
Much
feater
than
before
.
My
brother’s
servants
Were
then
my
fellows
;
now
they
are
my
men
.
Why
,
how
now
,
ho
!
Awake
?
Why
are
you
drawn
?
Wherefore
this
ghastly
looking
?
Here’s
neither
bush
nor
shrub
to
bear
off
any
weather
at
all
.
And
another
storm
brewing
;
I
hear
it
sing
i’
th’
wind
.
Yond
same
black
cloud
,
yond
huge
one
,
looks
like
a
foul
bombard
that
would
shed
his
liquor
.
If
it
should
thunder
as
it
did
before
,
I
know
not
where
to
hide
my
head
.
Yond
same
cloud
cannot
choose
but
fall
by
pailfuls
.
What
have
we
here
,
a
man
or
a
fish
?
Dead
or
alive
?
A
fish
,
he
smells
like
a
fish
—
a
very
ancient
and
fishlike
smell
,
a
kind
of
not-of-the-newest
poor-John
.
A
strange
fish
.
Were
I
in
England
now
,
as
once
I
was
,
and
had
but
this
fish
painted
,
not
a
holiday
fool
there
but
would
give
a
piece
of
silver
.
There
would
this
monster
make
a
man
.
Any
strange
beast
there
makes
a
man
.
When
they
will
not
give
a
doit
to
relieve
a
lame
beggar
,
they
will
lay
out
ten
to
see
a
dead
Indian
.
Legged
like
a
man
,
and
his
fins
like
arms
!
Warm
,
o’
my
troth
!
I
do
now
let
loose
my
opinion
,
hold
it
no
longer
:
this
is
no
fish
,
but
an
islander
that
hath
lately
suffered
by
a
thunderbolt
.
Alas
,
the
storm
is
come
again
.
My
best
way
is
to
creep
under
his
gaberdine
.
There
is
no
other
shelter
hereabout
.
Misery
acquaints
a
man
with
strange
bedfellows
.
I
will
here
shroud
till
the
dregs
of
the
storm
be
past
.
You look wearily .
Look
thou
be
true
;
do
not
give
dalliance
Too
much
the
rein
.
The
strongest
oaths
are
straw
To
th’
fire
i’
th’
blood
.
Be
more
abstemious
,
Or
else
goodnight
your
vow
.
You
nymphs
,
called
naiads
of
the
windring
brooks
,
With
your
sedged
crowns
and
ever-harmless
looks
,
Leave
your
crisp
channels
and
on
this
green
land
Answer
your
summons
,
Juno
does
command
.
Come
,
temperate
nymphs
,
and
help
to
celebrate
A
contract
of
true
love
.
Be
not
too
late
.
You
sunburned
sicklemen
,
of
August
weary
,
Come
hither
from
the
furrow
and
be
merry
.
Make
holiday
:
your
rye-straw
hats
put
on
,
And
these
fresh
nymphs
encounter
every
one
In
country
footing
.
You
do
look
,
my
son
,
in
a
moved
sort
,
As
if
you
were
dismayed
.
Be
cheerful
,
sir
.
Our
revels
now
are
ended
.
These
our
actors
,
As
I
foretold
you
,
were
all
spirits
and
Are
melted
into
air
,
into
thin
air
;
And
like
the
baseless
fabric
of
this
vision
,
The
cloud-capped
towers
,
the
gorgeous
palaces
,
The
solemn
temples
,
the
great
globe
itself
,
Yea
,
all
which
it
inherit
,
shall
dissolve
,
And
,
like
this
insubstantial
pageant
faded
,
Leave
not
a
rack
behind
.
We
are
such
stuff
As
dreams
are
made
on
,
and
our
little
life
Is
rounded
with
a
sleep
.
Sir
,
I
am
vexed
.
Bear
with
my
weakness
.
My
old
brain
is
troubled
.
Be
not
disturbed
with
my
infirmity
.
If
you
be
pleased
,
retire
into
my
cell
And
there
repose
.
A
turn
or
two
I’ll
walk
To
still
my
beating
mind
.
So
is
mine
.
—
Do
you
hear
,
monster
.
If
I
should
take
a
displeasure
against
you
,
look
you
—
Give
me
thy
hand
.
I
do
begin
to
have
bloody
thoughts
.
O
King
Stephano
,
O
peer
,
O
worthy
Stephano
,
look
what
a
wardrobe
here
is
for
thee
!
You
elves
of
hills
,
brooks
,
standing
lakes
,
and
groves
,
And
you
that
on
the
sands
with
printless
foot
Do
chase
the
ebbing
Neptune
,
and
do
fly
him
When
he
comes
back
;
you
demi-puppets
that
By
moonshine
do
the
green
sour
ringlets
make
,
Whereof
the
ewe
not
bites
;
and
you
whose
pastime
Is
to
make
midnight
mushrumps
,
that
rejoice
To
hear
the
solemn
curfew
;
by
whose
aid
,
Weak
masters
though
you
be
,
I
have
bedimmed
The
noontide
sun
,
called
forth
the
mutinous
winds
,
And
’twixt
the
green
sea
and
the
azured
vault
Set
roaring
war
;
to
the
dread
rattling
thunder
Have
I
given
fire
,
and
rifted
Jove’s
stout
oak
With
his
own
bolt
;
the
strong-based
promontory
Have
I
made
shake
,
and
by
the
spurs
plucked
up
The
pine
and
cedar
;
graves
at
my
command
Have
waked
their
sleepers
,
oped
,
and
let
’em
forth
By
my
so
potent
art
.
But
this
rough
magic
I
here
abjure
,
and
when
I
have
required
Some
heavenly
music
,
which
even
now
I
do
,
To
work
mine
end
upon
their
senses
that
This
airy
charm
is
for
,
I’ll
break
my
staff
,
Bury
it
certain
fathoms
in
the
earth
,
And
deeper
than
did
ever
plummet
sound
I’ll
drown
my
book
.
A
solemn
air
,
and
the
best
comforter
To
an
unsettled
fancy
,
cure
thy
brains
,
Now
useless
,
boiled
within
thy
skull
.
There
stand
,
For
you
are
spell-stopped
.
—
Holy
Gonzalo
,
honorable
man
,
Mine
eyes
,
e’en
sociable
to
the
show
of
thine
,
Fall
fellowly
drops
.
—
The
charm
dissolves
apace
,
And
as
the
morning
steals
upon
the
night
,
Melting
the
darkness
,
so
their
rising
senses
Begin
to
chase
the
ignorant
fumes
that
mantle
Their
clearer
reason
.
—
O
good
Gonzalo
,
My
true
preserver
and
a
loyal
sir
To
him
thou
follow’st
,
I
will
pay
thy
graces
Home
,
both
in
word
and
deed
.
—
Most
cruelly
Didst
thou
,
Alonso
,
use
me
and
my
daughter
.
Thy
brother
was
a
furtherer
in
the
act
.
—
Thou
art
pinched
for
’t
now
,
Sebastian
.
—
Flesh
and
blood
,
You
,
brother
mine
,
that
entertained
ambition
,
Expelled
remorse
and
nature
,
whom
,
with
Sebastian
,
Whose
inward
pinches
therefore
are
most
strong
,
Would
here
have
killed
your
king
,
I
do
forgive
thee
,
Unnatural
though
thou
art
.
—
Their
understanding
Begins
to
swell
,
and
the
approaching
tide
Will
shortly
fill
the
reasonable
shore
That
now
lies
foul
and
muddy
.
Not
one
of
them
That
yet
looks
on
me
,
or
would
know
me
.
—
Ariel
,
Fetch
me
the
hat
and
rapier
in
my
cell
.
I
will
discase
me
and
myself
present
As
I
was
sometime
Milan
.
—
Quickly
,
spirit
,
Thou
shalt
ere
long
be
free
.
Whe’er
thou
be’st
he
or
no
,
Or
some
enchanted
trifle
to
abuse
me
(
As
late
I
have
been
)
I
not
know
.
Thy
pulse
Beats
as
of
flesh
and
blood
;
and
since
I
saw
thee
,
Th’
affliction
of
my
mind
amends
,
with
which
I
fear
a
madness
held
me
.
This
must
crave
,
An
if
this
be
at
all
,
a
most
strange
story
.
Thy
dukedom
I
resign
,
and
do
entreat
Thou
pardon
me
my
wrongs
.
But
how
should
Prospero
Be
living
and
be
here
?
In
this
last
tempest
.
I
perceive
these
lords
At
this
encounter
do
so
much
admire
That
they
devour
their
reason
,
and
scarce
think
Their
eyes
do
offices
of
truth
,
their
words
Are
natural
breath
.
—
But
howsoe’er
you
have
Been
justled
from
your
senses
,
know
for
certain
That
I
am
Prospero
and
that
very
duke
Which
was
thrust
forth
of
Milan
,
who
most
strangely
Upon
this
shore
,
where
you
were
wracked
,
was
landed
To
be
the
lord
on
’t
.
No
more
yet
of
this
.
For
’tis
a
chronicle
of
day
by
day
,
Not
a
relation
for
a
breakfast
,
nor
Befitting
this
first
meeting
.
Welcome
,
sir
.
This
cell’s
my
court
.
Here
have
I
few
attendants
,
And
subjects
none
abroad
.
Pray
you
,
look
in
.
My
dukedom
since
you
have
given
me
again
,
I
will
requite
you
with
as
good
a
thing
,
At
least
bring
forth
a
wonder
to
content
you
As
much
as
me
my
dukedom
.
I
have
inly
wept
Or
should
have
spoke
ere
this
.
Look
down
,
you
gods
,
And
on
this
couple
drop
a
blessèd
crown
,
For
it
is
you
that
have
chalked
forth
the
way
Which
brought
us
hither
.
Be
it
so
.
Amen
.
O
,
look
,
sir
,
look
,
sir
,
here
is
more
of
us
.
I
prophesied
if
a
gallows
were
on
land
,
This
fellow
could
not
drown
.
Now
,
blasphemy
,
That
swear’st
grace
o’erboard
,
not
an
oath
on
shore
?
Hast
thou
no
mouth
by
land
?
What
is
the
news
?
This
is
as
strange
a
thing
as
e’er
I
looked
on
.
He
is
as
disproportioned
in
his
manners
As
in
his
shape
.
Go
,
sirrah
,
to
my
cell
.
Take
with
you
your
companions
.
As
you
look
To
have
my
pardon
,
trim
it
handsomely
.
To
be
in
love
,
where
scorn
is
bought
with
groans
,
Coy
looks
with
heart-sore
sighs
,
one
fading
moment’s
mirth
With
twenty
watchful
,
weary
,
tedious
nights
;
If
haply
won
,
perhaps
a
hapless
gain
;
If
lost
,
why
then
a
grievous
labor
won
;
How
ever
,
but
a
folly
bought
with
wit
,
Or
else
a
wit
by
folly
vanquishèd
.
Truly
,
sir
,
I
think
you’ll
hardly
win
her
.
And
yet
I
would
I
had
o’erlooked
the
letter
.
It
were
a
shame
to
call
her
back
again
And
pray
her
to
a
fault
for
which
I
chid
her
.
What
fool
is
she
that
knows
I
am
a
maid
And
would
not
force
the
letter
to
my
view
,
Since
maids
in
modesty
say
no
to
that
Which
they
would
have
the
profferer
construe
ay
!
Fie
,
fie
,
how
wayward
is
this
foolish
love
That
like
a
testy
babe
will
scratch
the
nurse
And
presently
,
all
humbled
,
kiss
the
rod
!
How
churlishly
I
chid
Lucetta
hence
,
When
willingly
I
would
have
had
her
here
!
How
angerly
I
taught
my
brow
to
frown
,
When
inward
joy
enforced
my
heart
to
smile
!
My
penance
is
to
call
Lucetta
back
And
ask
remission
for
my
folly
past
.
—
What
ho
,
Lucetta
!
Nay
,
would
I
were
so
angered
with
the
same
!
O
hateful
hands
,
to
tear
such
loving
words
!
Injurious
wasps
,
to
feed
on
such
sweet
honey
And
kill
the
bees
that
yield
it
with
your
stings
!
I’ll
kiss
each
several
paper
for
amends
.
Look
,
here
is
writ
kind
Julia
.
Unkind
Julia
,
As
in
revenge
of
thy
ingratitude
,
I
throw
thy
name
against
the
bruising
stones
,
Trampling
contemptuously
on
thy
disdain
.
And
here
is
writ
love-wounded
Proteus
.
Poor
wounded
name
,
my
bosom
as
a
bed
Shall
lodge
thee
till
thy
wound
be
throughly
healed
,
And
thus
I
search
it
with
a
sovereign
kiss
.
But
twice
or
thrice
was
Proteus
written
down
.
Be
calm
,
good
wind
.
Blow
not
a
word
away
Till
I
have
found
each
letter
in
the
letter
Except
mine
own
name
.
That
some
whirlwind
bear
Unto
a
ragged
,
fearful
,
hanging
rock
And
throw
it
thence
into
the
raging
sea
.
Lo
,
here
in
one
line
is
his
name
twice
writ
:
Poor
forlorn
Proteus
,
passionate
Proteus
,
To
the
sweet
Julia
.
That
I’ll
tear
away
—
And
yet
I
will
not
,
sith
so
prettily
He
couples
it
to
his
complaining
names
.
Thus
will
I
fold
them
one
upon
another
.
Now
kiss
,
embrace
,
contend
,
do
what
you
will
.
Look
what
thou
want’st
shall
be
sent
after
thee
.
No
more
of
stay
.
Tomorrow
thou
must
go
.
—
Come
on
,
Pantino
;
you
shall
be
employed
To
hasten
on
his
expedition
.
Marry
,
by
these
special
marks
:
first
,
you
have
learned
,
like
Sir
Proteus
,
to
wreathe
your
arms
like
a
malcontent
;
to
relish
a
love
song
like
a
robin
redbreast
;
to
walk
alone
like
one
that
had
the
pestilence
;
to
sigh
like
a
schoolboy
that
had
lost
his
ABC
;
to
weep
like
a
young
wench
that
had
buried
her
grandam
;
to
fast
like
one
that
takes
diet
;
to
watch
like
one
that
fears
robbing
;
to
speak
puling
like
a
beggar
at
Hallowmas
.
You
were
wont
,
when
you
laughed
,
to
crow
like
a
cock
;
when
you
walked
,
to
walk
like
one
of
the
lions
.
When
you
fasted
,
it
was
presently
after
dinner
;
when
you
looked
sadly
,
it
was
for
want
of
money
.
And
now
you
are
metamorphosed
with
a
mistress
,
that
when
I
look
on
you
,
I
can
hardly
think
you
my
master
.
Nay
,
’twill
be
this
hour
ere
I
have
done
weeping
.
All
the
kind
of
the
Lances
have
this
very
fault
.
I
have
received
my
proportion
like
the
Prodigious
Son
and
am
going
with
Sir
Proteus
to
the
Imperial’s
court
.
I
think
Crab
my
dog
be
the
sourest-natured
dog
that
lives
:
my
mother
weeping
,
my
father
wailing
,
my
sister
crying
,
our
maid
howling
,
our
cat
wringing
her
hands
,
and
all
our
house
in
a
great
perplexity
,
yet
did
not
this
cruel-hearted
cur
shed
one
tear
.
He
is
a
stone
,
a
very
pibble
stone
,
and
has
no
more
pity
in
him
than
a
dog
.
A
Jew
would
have
wept
to
have
seen
our
parting
.
Why
,
my
grandam
,
having
no
eyes
,
look
you
,
wept
herself
blind
at
my
parting
.
Nay
,
I’ll
show
you
the
manner
of
it
.
This
shoe
is
my
father
.
No
,
this
left
shoe
is
my
father
;
no
,
no
,
this
left
shoe
is
my
mother
.
Nay
,
that
cannot
be
so
neither
.
Yes
,
it
is
so
,
it
is
so
;
it
hath
the
worser
sole
.
This
shoe
with
the
hole
in
it
is
my
mother
;
and
this
my
father
.
A
vengeance
on
’t
,
there
’tis
!
Now
sir
,
this
staff
is
my
sister
,
for
,
look
you
,
she
is
as
white
as
a
lily
and
as
small
as
a
wand
.
This
hat
is
Nan
,
our
maid
.
I
am
the
dog
.
No
,
the
dog
is
himself
,
and
I
am
the
dog
.
O
,
the
dog
is
me
,
and
I
am
myself
.
Ay
,
so
,
so
.
Now
come
I
to
my
father
:
Father
,
your
blessing
.
Now
should
not
the
shoe
speak
a
word
for
weeping
.
Now
should
I
kiss
my
father
.
Well
,
he
weeps
on
.
Now
come
I
to
my
mother
.
O
,
that
she
could
speak
now
like
a
wold
woman
!
Well
,
I
kiss
her
.
Why
,
there
’tis
;
here’s
my
mother’s
breath
up
and
down
.
Now
come
I
to
my
sister
.
Mark
the
moan
she
makes
!
Now
the
dog
all
this
while
sheds
not
a
tear
nor
speaks
a
word
.
But
see
how
I
lay
the
dust
with
my
tears
.
Tut
,
man
.
I
mean
thou
’lt
lose
the
flood
and
,
in
losing
the
flood
,
lose
thy
voyage
and
,
in
losing
thy
voyage
,
lose
thy
master
and
,
in
losing
thy
master
,
lose
thy
service
and
,
in
losing
thy
service
—
Why
dost
thou
stop
my
mouth
?
That
hath
more
mind
to
feed
on
your
blood
than
live
in
your
air
.
Yourself
,
sweet
lady
,
for
you
gave
the
fire
.
Sir
Thurio
borrows
his
wit
from
your
Ladyship’s
looks
and
spends
what
he
borrows
kindly
in
your
company
.
This
is
the
gentleman
I
told
your
Ladyship
Had
come
along
with
me
but
that
his
mistress
Did
hold
his
eyes
locked
in
her
crystal
looks
.
Not
so
,
sweet
lady
,
but
too
mean
a
servant
To
have
a
look
of
such
a
worthy
mistress
.
I
wait
upon
his
pleasure
.
Come
,
Sir
Thurio
,
Go
with
me
.
—
Once
more
,
new
servant
,
welcome
.
I’ll
leave
you
to
confer
of
home
affairs
.
When
you
have
done
,
we
look
to
hear
from
you
.
I
will
.
Even
as
one
heat
another
heat
expels
,
Or
as
one
nail
by
strength
drives
out
another
,
So
the
remembrance
of
my
former
love
Is
by
a
newer
object
quite
forgotten
.
Is
it
mine
eye
,
or
Valentine’s
praise
,
Her
true
perfection
,
or
my
false
transgression
,
That
makes
me
reasonless
to
reason
thus
?
She
is
fair
,
and
so
is
Julia
that
I
love
—
That
I
did
love
,
for
now
my
love
is
thawed
,
Which
like
a
waxen
image
’gainst
a
fire
Bears
no
impression
of
the
thing
it
was
.
Methinks
my
zeal
to
Valentine
is
cold
,
And
that
I
love
him
not
as
I
was
wont
.
O
,
but
I
love
his
lady
too
too
much
,
And
that’s
the
reason
I
love
him
so
little
.
How
shall
I
dote
on
her
with
more
advice
That
thus
without
advice
begin
to
love
her
?
’Tis
but
her
picture
I
have
yet
beheld
,
And
that
hath
dazzled
my
reason’s
light
;
But
when
I
look
on
her
perfections
,
There
is
no
reason
but
I
shall
be
blind
.
If
I
can
check
my
erring
love
,
I
will
;
If
not
,
to
compass
her
I’ll
use
my
skill
.
Ay
,
and
what
I
do
too
.
Look
thee
,
I’ll
but
lean
,
and
my
staff
understands
me
.
O
,
know’st
thou
not
his
looks
are
my
soul’s
food
?
Pity
the
dearth
that
I
have
pinèd
in
By
longing
for
that
food
so
long
a
time
.
Didst
thou
but
know
the
inly
touch
of
love
,
Thou
wouldst
as
soon
go
kindle
fire
with
snow
As
seek
to
quench
the
fire
of
love
with
words
.
Not
like
a
woman
,
for
I
would
prevent
The
loose
encounters
of
lascivious
men
.
Gentle
Lucetta
,
fit
me
with
such
weeds
As
may
beseem
some
well-reputed
page
.
Proteus
,
I
thank
thee
for
thine
honest
care
,
Which
to
requite
command
me
while
I
live
.
This
love
of
theirs
myself
have
often
seen
,
Haply
when
they
have
judged
me
fast
asleep
,
And
oftentimes
have
purposed
to
forbid
Sir
Valentine
her
company
and
my
court
.
But
fearing
lest
my
jealous
aim
might
err
And
so
,
unworthily
,
disgrace
the
man
—
A
rashness
that
I
ever
yet
have
shunned
—
I
gave
him
gentle
looks
,
thereby
to
find
That
which
thyself
hast
now
disclosed
to
me
.
And
that
thou
mayst
perceive
my
fear
of
this
,
Knowing
that
tender
youth
is
soon
suggested
,
I
nightly
lodge
her
in
an
upper
tower
,
The
key
whereof
myself
have
ever
kept
,
And
thence
she
cannot
be
conveyed
away
.
Now
,
as
thou
art
a
gentleman
of
blood
,
Advise
me
where
I
may
have
such
a
ladder
.
And
why
not
death
,
rather
than
living
torment
?
To
die
is
to
be
banished
from
myself
,
And
Sylvia
is
myself
;
banished
from
her
Is
self
from
self
—
a
deadly
banishment
.
What
light
is
light
if
Sylvia
be
not
seen
?
What
joy
is
joy
if
Sylvia
be
not
by
—
Unless
it
be
to
think
that
she
is
by
And
feed
upon
the
shadow
of
perfection
?
Except
I
be
by
Sylvia
in
the
night
,
There
is
no
music
in
the
nightingale
.
Unless
I
look
on
Sylvia
in
the
day
,
There
is
no
day
for
me
to
look
upon
.
She
is
my
essence
,
and
I
leave
to
be
If
I
be
not
by
her
fair
influence
Fostered
,
illumined
,
cherished
,
kept
alive
.
I
fly
not
death
,
to
fly
his
deadly
doom
;
Tarry
I
here
,
I
but
attend
on
death
,
But
fly
I
hence
,
I
fly
away
from
life
.
I
am
but
a
fool
,
look
you
,
and
yet
I
have
the
wit
to
think
my
master
is
a
kind
of
a
knave
,
but
that’s
all
one
if
he
be
but
one
knave
.
He
lives
not
now
that
knows
me
to
be
in
love
,
yet
I
am
in
love
,
but
a
team
of
horse
shall
not
pluck
that
from
me
,
nor
who
’tis
I
love
;
and
yet
’tis
a
woman
,
but
what
woman
I
will
not
tell
myself
;
and
yet
’tis
a
milk-maid
;
yet
’tis
not
a
maid
,
for
she
hath
had
gossips
;
yet
’tis
a
maid
,
for
she
is
her
master’s
maid
and
serves
for
wages
.
She
hath
more
qualities
than
a
water
spaniel
,
which
is
much
in
a
bare
Christian
.
Here
is
the
catalog
of
her
condition
.
Imprimis
,
She
can
fetch
and
carry
.
Why
,
a
horse
can
do
no
more
;
nay
,
a
horse
cannot
fetch
but
only
carry
;
therefore
is
she
better
than
a
jade
.
Item
,
She
can
milk
.
Look
you
,
a
sweet
virtue
in
a
maid
with
clean
hands
.
Longer
than
I
prove
loyal
to
your
Grace
Let
me
not
live
to
look
upon
your
Grace
.
When
a
man’s
servant
shall
play
the
cur
with
him
,
look
you
,
it
goes
hard
—
one
that
I
brought
up
of
a
puppy
,
one
that
I
saved
from
drowning
when
three
or
four
of
his
blind
brothers
and
sisters
went
to
it
.
I
have
taught
him
even
as
one
would
say
precisely
Thus
I
would
teach
a
dog
.
I
was
sent
to
deliver
him
as
a
present
to
Mistress
Sylvia
from
my
master
;
and
I
came
no
sooner
into
the
dining
chamber
but
he
steps
me
to
her
trencher
and
steals
her
capon’s
leg
.
O
,
’tis
a
foul
thing
when
a
cur
cannot
keep
himself
in
all
companies
!
I
would
have
,
as
one
should
say
,
one
that
takes
upon
him
to
be
a
dog
indeed
;
to
be
,
as
it
were
,
a
dog
at
all
things
.
If
I
had
not
had
more
wit
than
he
,
to
take
a
fault
upon
me
that
he
did
,
I
think
verily
he
had
been
hanged
for
’t
.
Sure
as
I
live
,
he
had
suffered
for
’t
.
You
shall
judge
.
He
thrusts
me
himself
into
the
company
of
three
or
four
gentlemanlike
dogs
under
the
Duke’s
table
;
he
had
not
been
there
—
bless
the
mark
!
—
a
pissing
while
but
all
the
chamber
smelt
him
.
Out
with
the
dog
!
says
one
.
What
cur
is
that
?
says
another
.
Whip
him
out
!
says
the
third
.
Hang
him
up
!
says
the
Duke
.
I
,
having
been
acquainted
with
the
smell
before
,
knew
it
was
Crab
,
and
goes
me
to
the
fellow
that
whips
the
dogs
.
Friend
,
quoth
I
,
You
mean
to
whip
the
dog
?
Ay
,
marry
,
do
I
,
quoth
he
.
You
do
him
the
more
wrong
,
quoth
I
.
’Twas
I
did
the
thing
you
wot
of
.
He
makes
me
no
more
ado
but
whips
me
out
of
the
chamber
.
How
many
masters
would
do
this
for
his
servant
?
Nay
,
I’ll
be
sworn
I
have
sat
in
the
stocks
for
puddings
he
hath
stolen
;
otherwise
he
had
been
executed
.
I
have
stood
on
the
pillory
for
geese
he
hath
killed
;
otherwise
he
had
suffered
for
’t
.
Thou
think’st
not
of
this
now
.
Nay
,
I
remember
the
trick
you
served
me
when
I
took
my
leave
of
Madam
Sylvia
.
Did
not
I
bid
thee
still
mark
me
,
and
do
as
I
do
?
When
didst
thou
see
me
heave
up
my
leg
and
make
water
against
a
gentlewoman’s
farthingale
?
Didst
thou
ever
see
me
do
such
a
trick
?
I
pray
thee
let
me
look
on
that
again
.
There
,
hold
.
I
will
not
look
upon
your
master’s
lines
;
I
know
they
are
stuffed
with
protestations
And
full
of
new-found
oaths
,
which
he
will
break
As
easily
as
I
do
tear
his
paper
.
She
hath
been
fairer
,
madam
,
than
she
is
;
When
she
did
think
my
master
loved
her
well
,
She
,
in
my
judgment
,
was
as
fair
as
you
.
But
since
she
did
neglect
her
looking-glass
And
threw
her
sun-expelling
mask
away
,
The
air
hath
starved
the
roses
in
her
cheeks
And
pinched
the
lily
tincture
of
her
face
,
That
now
she
is
become
as
black
as
I
.
’Tis
true
,
such
pearls
as
put
out
ladies’
eyes
,
For
I
had
rather
wink
than
look
on
them
.
Madam
,
this
service
I
have
done
for
you
—
Though
you
respect
not
aught
your
servant
doth
—
To
hazard
life
,
and
rescue
you
from
him
That
would
have
forced
your
honor
and
your
love
.
Vouchsafe
me
for
my
meed
but
one
fair
look
;
A
smaller
boon
than
this
I
cannot
beg
,
And
less
than
this
I
am
sure
you
cannot
give
.
What
dangerous
action
,
stood
it
next
to
death
,
Would
I
not
undergo
for
one
calm
look
!
O
,
’tis
the
curse
in
love
,
and
still
approved
,
When
women
cannot
love
where
they’re
beloved
.
Look to the boy .
Why
,
boy
!
Why
,
wag
,
how
now
?
What’s
the
matter
?
Look
up
.
Speak
.
Honored
Hippolyta
,
Most
dreaded
Amazonian
,
that
hast
slain
The
scythe-tusked
boar
;
that
with
thy
arm
,
as
strong
As
it
is
white
,
wast
near
to
make
the
male
To
thy
sex
captive
,
but
that
this
thy
lord
,
Born
to
uphold
creation
in
that
honor
First
nature
styled
it
in
,
shrunk
thee
into
The
bound
thou
wast
o’erflowing
,
at
once
subduing
Thy
force
and
thy
affection
;
soldieress
That
equally
canst
poise
sternness
with
pity
,
Whom
now
I
know
hast
much
more
power
on
him
Than
ever
he
had
on
thee
,
who
ow’st
his
strength
And
his
love
too
,
who
is
a
servant
for
The
tenor
of
thy
speech
,
dear
glass
of
ladies
,
Bid
him
that
we
,
whom
flaming
war
doth
scorch
,
Under
the
shadow
of
his
sword
may
cool
us
;
Require
him
he
advance
it
o’er
our
heads
;
Speak
’t
in
a
woman’s
key
,
like
such
a
woman
As
any
of
us
three
;
weep
ere
you
fail
.
Lend
us
a
knee
;
But
touch
the
ground
for
us
no
longer
time
Than
a
dove’s
motion
when
the
head’s
plucked
off
.
Tell
him
if
he
i’
th’
blood-sized
field
lay
swoll’n
,
Showing
the
sun
his
teeth
,
grinning
at
the
moon
,
What
you
would
do
.
Pray
stand
up
.
I
am
entreating
of
myself
to
do
That
which
you
kneel
to
have
me
.
—
Pirithous
,
Lead
on
the
bride
;
get
you
and
pray
the
gods
For
success
and
return
;
omit
not
anything
In
the
pretended
celebration
.
—
Queens
,
Follow
your
soldier
.
As
before
,
hence
you
,
And
at
the
banks
of
Aulis
meet
us
with
The
forces
you
can
raise
,
where
we
shall
find
The
moiety
of
a
number
for
a
business
More
bigger
looked
.
Since
that
our
theme
is
haste
,
I
stamp
this
kiss
upon
thy
currant
lip
;
Sweet
,
keep
it
as
my
token
.
—
Set
you
forward
,
For
I
will
see
you
gone
.
Farewell
,
my
beauteous
sister
.
—
Pirithous
,
Keep
the
feast
full
;
bate
not
an
hour
on
’t
.
Dear
Palamon
,
dearer
in
love
than
blood
And
our
prime
cousin
,
yet
unhardened
in
The
crimes
of
nature
,
let
us
leave
the
city
Thebes
,
and
the
temptings
in
’t
,
before
we
further
Sully
our
gloss
of
youth
,
And
here
to
keep
in
abstinence
we
shame
As
in
incontinence
;
for
not
to
swim
I’
th’
aid
o’
th’
current
were
almost
to
sink
,
At
least
to
frustrate
striving
;
and
to
follow
The
common
stream
,
’twould
bring
us
to
an
eddy
Where
we
should
turn
or
drown
;
if
labor
through
,
Our
gain
but
life
and
weakness
.
He
.
A
most
unbounded
tyrant
,
whose
successes
Makes
heaven
unfeared
and
villainy
assured
Beyond
its
power
there’s
nothing
;
almost
puts
Faith
in
a
fever
,
and
deifies
alone
Voluble
chance
;
who
only
attributes
The
faculties
of
other
instruments
To
his
own
nerves
and
act
;
commands
men
service
,
And
what
they
win
in
’t
,
boot
and
glory
;
one
That
fears
not
to
do
harm
;
good
,
dares
not
.
Let
The
blood
of
mine
that’s
sib
to
him
be
sucked
From
me
with
leeches
;
let
them
break
and
fall
Off
me
with
that
corruption
.
Clear-spirited
cousin
,
Let’s
leave
his
court
,
that
we
may
nothing
share
Of
his
loud
infamy
;
for
our
milk
Will
relish
of
the
pasture
,
and
we
must
Be
vile
or
disobedient
,
not
his
kinsmen
In
blood
unless
in
quality
.
Let’s
to
the
King
,
who
,
were
he
A
quarter
carrier
of
that
honor
which
His
enemy
come
in
,
the
blood
we
venture
Should
be
as
for
our
health
,
which
were
not
spent
,
Rather
laid
out
for
purchase
.
But
alas
,
Our
hands
advanced
before
our
hearts
,
what
will
The
fall
o’
th’
stroke
do
damage
?
Doubtless
There
is
a
best
,
and
reason
has
no
manners
To
say
it
is
not
you
.
I
was
acquainted
Once
with
a
time
when
I
enjoyed
a
playfellow
;
You
were
at
wars
when
she
the
grave
enriched
,
Who
made
too
proud
the
bed
;
took
leave
o’
th’
moon
,
Which
then
looked
pale
at
parting
,
when
our
count
Was
each
eleven
.
Th’
impartial
gods
,
who
from
the
mounted
heavens
View
us
their
mortal
herd
,
behold
who
err
And
,
in
their
time
,
chastise
.
Go
and
find
out
The
bones
of
your
dead
lords
and
honor
them
With
treble
ceremony
;
rather
than
a
gap
Should
be
in
their
dear
rites
,
we
would
supply
’t
;
But
those
we
will
depute
which
shall
invest
You
in
your
dignities
and
even
each
thing
Our
haste
does
leave
imperfect
.
So
,
adieu
,
And
heaven’s
good
eyes
look
on
you
.
What
are
those
?
Urns
and
odors
bring
away
;
Vapors
,
sighs
,
darken
the
day
;
Our
dole
more
deadly
looks
than
dying
;
Balms
and
gums
and
heavy
cheers
,
Sacred
vials
filled
with
tears
,
And
clamors
through
the
wild
air
flying
.
Come
,
all
sad
and
solemn
shows
That
are
quick-eyed
Pleasure’s
foes
;
We
convent
naught
else
but
woes
.
We
convent
naught
else
but
woes
.
Your
friend
and
I
have
chanced
to
name
you
here
,
upon
the
old
business
.
But
no
more
of
that
now
;
so
soon
as
the
court
hurry
is
over
,
we
will
have
an
end
of
it
.
I’
th’
meantime
,
look
tenderly
to
the
two
prisoners
.
I
can
tell
you
they
are
princes
.
Nay
,
most
likely
,
for
they
are
noble
suff’rers
.
I
marvel
how
they
would
have
looked
had
they
been
victors
,
that
with
such
a
constant
nobility
enforce
a
freedom
out
of
bondage
,
making
misery
their
mirth
and
affliction
a
toy
to
jest
at
.
It
seems
to
me
they
have
no
more
sense
of
their
captivity
than
I
of
ruling
Athens
.
They
eat
well
,
look
merrily
,
discourse
of
many
things
,
but
nothing
of
their
own
restraint
and
disasters
.
Yet
sometimes
a
divided
sigh
,
martyred
as
’twere
i’
th’
deliverance
,
will
break
from
one
of
them
—
when
the
other
presently
gives
it
so
sweet
a
rebuke
that
I
could
wish
myself
a
sigh
to
be
so
chid
,
or
at
least
a
sigher
to
be
comforted
.
The
Duke
himself
came
privately
in
the
night
,
and
so
did
they
.
What
the
reason
of
it
is
,
I
know
not
.
Look
,
yonder
they
are
;
that’s
Arcite
looks
out
.
It
is
a
holiday
to
look
on
them
.
Lord
,
the
diff’rence
of
men
!
’Tis
too
true
,
Arcite
.
To
our
Theban
hounds
That
shook
the
agèd
forest
with
their
echoes
No
more
now
must
we
halloo
;
no
more
shake
Our
pointed
javelins
whilst
the
angry
swine
Flies
like
a
Parthian
quiver
from
our
rages
,
Struck
with
our
well-steeled
darts
.
All
valiant
uses
,
The
food
and
nourishment
of
noble
minds
,
In
us
two
here
shall
perish
;
we
shall
die
,
Which
is
the
curse
of
honor
,
lastly
,
Children
of
grief
and
ignorance
.
I
,
that
first
saw
her
;
I
that
took
possession
First
with
mine
eye
of
all
those
beauties
In
her
revealed
to
mankind
.
If
thou
lov’st
her
,
Or
entertain’st
a
hope
to
blast
my
wishes
,
Thou
art
a
traitor
,
Arcite
,
and
a
fellow
False
as
thy
title
to
her
.
Friendship
,
blood
,
And
all
the
ties
between
us
I
disclaim
If
thou
once
think
upon
her
.
Yes
,
and
have
found
me
so
.
Why
are
you
moved
thus
?
Let
me
deal
coldly
with
you
:
am
not
I
Part
of
your
blood
,
part
of
your
soul
?
You
have
told
me
That
I
was
Palamon
and
you
were
Arcite
.
And
me
too
,
Even
when
you
please
,
of
life
.
—
Why
is
he
sent
for
?
It
may
be
he
shall
marry
her
;
he’s
goodly
,
And
like
enough
the
Duke
hath
taken
notice
Both
of
his
blood
and
body
.
But
his
falsehood
!
Why
should
a
friend
be
treacherous
?
If
that
Get
him
a
wife
so
noble
and
so
fair
,
Let
honest
men
ne’er
love
again
.
Once
more
I
would
but
see
this
fair
one
.
Blessèd
garden
And
fruit
and
flowers
more
blessèd
that
still
blossom
As
her
bright
eyes
shine
on
you
,
would
I
were
,
For
all
the
fortune
of
my
life
hereafter
,
Yon
little
tree
,
yon
blooming
apricock
!
How
I
would
spread
and
fling
my
wanton
arms
In
at
her
window
;
I
would
bring
her
fruit
Fit
for
the
gods
to
feed
on
;
youth
and
pleasure
Still
as
she
tasted
should
be
doubled
on
her
;
And
,
if
she
be
not
heavenly
,
I
would
make
her
So
near
the
gods
in
nature
,
they
should
fear
her
.
And
then
I
am
sure
she
would
love
me
.
—
How
now
,
keeper
,
Where’s
Arcite
?
Why
should
I
love
this
gentleman
?
’Tis
odds
He
never
will
affect
me
.
I
am
base
,
My
father
the
mean
keeper
of
his
prison
,
And
he
a
prince
.
To
marry
him
is
hopeless
;
To
be
his
whore
is
witless
.
Out
upon
’t
!
What
pushes
are
we
wenches
driven
to
When
fifteen
once
has
found
us
!
First
,
I
saw
him
;
I
,
seeing
,
thought
he
was
a
goodly
man
;
He
has
as
much
to
please
a
woman
in
him
,
If
he
please
to
bestow
it
so
,
as
ever
These
eyes
yet
looked
on
.
Next
,
I
pitied
him
,
And
so
would
any
young
wench
,
o’
my
conscience
,
That
ever
dreamed
,
or
vowed
her
maidenhead
To
a
young
handsome
man
.
Then
I
loved
him
,
Extremely
loved
him
,
infinitely
loved
him
!
And
yet
he
had
a
cousin
,
fair
as
he
too
.
But
in
my
heart
was
Palamon
,
and
there
,
Lord
,
what
a
coil
he
keeps
!
To
hear
him
Sing
in
an
evening
,
what
a
heaven
it
is
!
And
yet
his
songs
are
sad
ones
.
Fairer
spoken
Was
never
gentleman
.
When
I
come
in
To
bring
him
water
in
a
morning
,
first
He
bows
his
noble
body
,
then
salutes
me
thus
:
Fair
,
gentle
maid
,
good
morrow
.
May
thy
goodness
Get
thee
a
happy
husband
.
Once
he
kissed
me
;
I
loved
my
lips
the
better
ten
days
after
.
Would
he
would
do
so
ev’ry
day
!
He
grieves
much
—
And
me
as
much
to
see
his
misery
.
What
should
I
do
to
make
him
know
I
love
him
?
For
I
would
fain
enjoy
him
.
Say
I
ventured
To
set
him
free
?
What
says
the
law
then
?
Thus
much
for
law
or
kindred
!
I
will
do
it
,
And
this
night
,
or
tomorrow
,
he
shall
love
me
.
Let
all
the
dukes
and
all
the
devils
roar
!
He
is
at
liberty
.
I
have
ventured
for
him
,
And
out
I
have
brought
him
;
to
a
little
wood
A
mile
hence
I
have
sent
him
,
where
a
cedar
Higher
than
all
the
rest
spreads
like
a
plane
Fast
by
a
brook
,
and
there
he
shall
keep
close
Till
I
provide
him
files
and
food
,
for
yet
His
iron
bracelets
are
not
off
.
O
Love
,
What
a
stout-hearted
child
thou
art
!
My
father
Durst
better
have
endured
cold
iron
than
done
it
.
I
love
him
beyond
love
and
beyond
reason
Or
wit
or
safety
.
I
have
made
him
know
it
;
I
care
not
,
I
am
desperate
.
If
the
law
Find
me
and
then
condemn
me
for
’t
,
some
wenches
,
Some
honest-hearted
maids
,
will
sing
my
dirge
And
tell
to
memory
my
death
was
noble
,
Dying
almost
a
martyr
.
That
way
he
takes
I
purpose
is
my
way
too
.
Sure
he
cannot
Be
so
unmanly
as
to
leave
me
here
.
If
he
do
,
maids
will
not
so
easily
Trust
men
again
.
And
yet
he
has
not
thanked
me
For
what
I
have
done
;
no
,
not
so
much
as
kissed
me
,
And
that
,
methinks
,
is
not
so
well
;
nor
scarcely
Could
I
persuade
him
to
become
a
free
man
,
He
made
such
scruples
of
the
wrong
he
did
To
me
and
to
my
father
.
Yet
I
hope
,
When
he
considers
more
,
this
love
of
mine
Will
take
more
root
within
him
.
Let
him
do
What
he
will
with
me
,
so
he
use
me
kindly
;
For
use
me
so
he
shall
,
or
I’ll
proclaim
him
,
And
to
his
face
,
no
man
.
I’ll
presently
Provide
him
necessaries
and
pack
my
clothes
up
,
And
where
there
is
a
path
of
ground
I’ll
venture
,
So
he
be
with
me
.
By
him
like
a
shadow
I’ll
ever
dwell
.
Within
this
hour
the
hubbub
Will
be
all
o’er
the
prison
.
I
am
then
Kissing
the
man
they
look
for
.
Farewell
,
father
!
Get
many
more
such
prisoners
and
such
daughters
,
And
shortly
you
may
keep
yourself
.
Now
to
him
.
The
Duke
has
lost
Hippolyta
;
each
took
A
several
laund
.
This
is
a
solemn
rite
They
owe
bloomed
May
,
and
the
Athenians
pay
it
To
th’
heart
of
ceremony
.
O
Queen
Emilia
,
Fresher
than
May
,
sweeter
Than
her
gold
buttons
on
the
boughs
,
or
all
Th’
enameled
knacks
o’
th’
mead
or
garden
—
yea
,
We
challenge
too
the
bank
of
any
nymph
That
makes
the
stream
seem
flowers
;
thou
,
O
jewel
O’
th’
wood
,
o’
th’
world
,
hast
likewise
blessed
a
pace
With
thy
sole
presence
.
In
thy
rumination
That
I
,
poor
man
,
might
eftsoons
come
between
And
chop
on
some
cold
thought
!
Thrice
blessèd
chance
To
drop
on
such
a
mistress
,
expectation
Most
guiltless
on
’t
.
Tell
me
,
O
Lady
Fortune
,
Next
after
Emily
my
sovereign
,
how
far
I
may
be
proud
.
She
takes
strong
note
of
me
,
Hath
made
me
near
her
;
and
this
beauteous
morn
,
The
prim’st
of
all
the
year
,
presents
me
with
A
brace
of
horses
;
two
such
steeds
might
well
Be
by
a
pair
of
kings
backed
,
in
a
field
That
their
crowns’
titles
tried
.
Alas
,
alas
,
Poor
cousin
Palamon
,
poor
prisoner
,
thou
So
little
dream’st
upon
my
fortune
that
Thou
think’st
thyself
the
happier
thing
,
to
be
So
near
Emilia
;
me
thou
deem’st
at
Thebes
,
And
therein
wretched
,
although
free
.
But
if
Thou
knew’st
my
mistress
breathed
on
me
,
and
that
I
eared
her
language
,
lived
in
her
eye
—
O
coz
,
What
passion
would
enclose
thee
!
Traitor
kinsman
,
Thou
shouldst
perceive
my
passion
if
these
signs
Of
prisonment
were
off
me
,
and
this
hand
But
owner
of
a
sword
.
By
all
oaths
in
one
,
I
and
the
justice
of
my
love
would
make
thee
A
confessed
traitor
,
O
thou
most
perfidious
That
ever
gently
looked
,
the
void’st
of
honor
That
e’er
bore
gentle
token
,
falsest
cousin
That
ever
blood
made
kin
!
Call’st
thou
her
thine
?
I’ll
prove
it
in
my
shackles
,
with
these
hands
,
Void
of
appointment
,
that
thou
liest
,
and
art
A
very
thief
in
love
,
a
chaffy
lord
,
Nor
worth
the
name
of
villain
.
Had
I
a
sword
,
And
these
house
clogs
away
—
Nay
,
pray
you
,
You
talk
of
feeding
me
to
breed
me
strength
.
You
are
going
now
to
look
upon
a
sun
That
strengthens
what
it
looks
on
;
there
You
have
a
vantage
o’er
me
,
but
enjoy
’t
till
I
may
enforce
my
remedy
.
Farewell
.
Drink
a
good
hearty
draught
;
it
breeds
good
blood
,
man
.
Do
not
you
feel
it
thaw
you
?
I
am
very
cold
,
and
all
the
stars
are
out
too
,
The
little
stars
and
all
,
that
look
like
aglets
.
The
sun
has
seen
my
folly
.
—
Palamon
!
Alas
,
no
;
he’s
in
heaven
.
Where
am
I
now
?
Yonder’s
the
sea
,
and
there’s
a
ship
.
How
’t
tumbles
!
And
there’s
a
rock
lies
watching
under
water
.
Now
,
now
,
it
beats
upon
it
;
now
,
now
,
now
,
There’s
a
leak
sprung
,
a
sound
one
!
How
they
cry
!
Open
her
before
the
wind
;
you’ll
lose
all
else
.
Up
with
a
course
or
two
,
and
tack
about
,
boys
!
Good
night
,
good
night
;
you’re
gone
.
I
am
very
hungry
.
Would
I
could
find
a
fine
frog
;
he
would
tell
me
News
from
all
parts
o’
th’
world
;
then
would
I
make
A
carrack
of
a
cockleshell
,
and
sail
By
east
and
northeast
to
the
king
of
pygmies
,
For
he
tells
fortunes
rarely
.
Now
my
father
,
Twenty
to
one
,
is
trussed
up
in
a
trice
Tomorrow
morning
.
I’ll
say
never
a
word
.
For
I’ll
cut
my
green
coat
a
foot
above
my
knee
,
And
I’ll
clip
my
yellow
locks
an
inch
below
mine
eye
.
Hey
nonny
,
nonny
,
nonny
.
He’s
buy
me
a
white
cut
,
forth
for
to
ride
,
And
I’ll
go
seek
him
through
the
world
that
is
so
wide
.
Hey
nonny
,
nonny
,
nonny
.
O
,
for
a
prick
now
,
like
a
nightingale
,
To
put
my
breast
against
.
I
shall
sleep
like
a
top
else
.
I
can
tell
your
fortune
.
You
are
a
fool
.
Tell
ten
.
—
I
have
posed
him
.
Buzz
!
—
Friend
,
you
must
eat
no
white
bread
;
if
you
do
,
your
teeth
will
bleed
extremely
.
Shall
we
dance
,
ho
?
I
know
you
,
you’re
a
tinker
.
Sirrah
tinker
,
stop
no
more
holes
but
what
you
should
.
If
you
but
favor
,
our
country
pastime
made
is
.
We
are
a
few
of
those
collected
here
That
ruder
tongues
distinguish
villager
.
And
to
say
verity
,
and
not
to
fable
,
We
are
a
merry
rout
,
or
else
a
rabble
,
Or
company
,
or
by
a
figure
,
chorus
,
That
’fore
thy
dignity
will
dance
a
morris
.
And
I
that
am
the
rectifier
of
all
,
By
title
pedagogus
,
that
let
fall
The
birch
upon
the
breeches
of
the
small
ones
,
And
humble
with
a
ferula
the
tall
ones
,
Do
here
present
this
machine
,
or
this
frame
.
And
,
dainty
duke
,
whose
doughty
dismal
fame
From
Dis
to
Daedalus
,
from
post
to
pillar
,
Is
blown
abroad
,
help
me
,
thy
poor
well-willer
,
And
with
thy
twinkling
eyes
look
right
and
straight
Upon
this
mighty
Morr
,
of
mickle
weight
—
Is
now
comes
in
,
which
being
glued
together
Makes
Morris
,
and
the
cause
that
we
came
hither
.
The
body
of
our
sport
,
of
no
small
study
,
I
first
appear
,
though
rude
,
and
raw
,
and
muddy
,
To
speak
before
thy
noble
grace
this
tenner
,
At
whose
great
feet
I
offer
up
my
penner
.
The
next
,
the
Lord
of
May
and
Lady
bright
,
The
Chambermaid
and
Servingman
by
night
That
seek
out
silent
hanging
;
then
mine
Host
And
his
fat
Spouse
,
that
welcomes
to
their
cost
The
gallèd
traveler
,
and
with
a
beck’ning
Informs
the
tapster
to
inflame
the
reck’ning
;
Then
the
beest-eating
Clown
;
and
next
the
Fool
,
The
Bavian
with
long
tail
and
eke
long
tool
,
Cum
multis
aliis
that
make
a
dance
;
Say
ay
,
and
all
shall
presently
advance
.
Thank
you
,
Arcite
.
How
do
I
look
?
Am
I
fall’n
much
away
?
This
only
,
and
no
more
:
thou
art
mine
aunt’s
son
.
And
that
blood
we
desire
to
shed
is
mutual
—
In
me
thine
,
and
in
thee
mine
.
My
sword
Is
in
my
hand
,
and
if
thou
kill’st
me
,
The
gods
and
I
forgive
thee
.
If
there
be
A
place
prepared
for
those
that
sleep
in
honor
,
I
wish
his
weary
soul
that
falls
may
win
it
.
Fight
bravely
,
cousin
.
Give
me
thy
noble
hand
.
Look to thine own well , Arcite .
Say
,
Emilia
,
If
one
of
them
were
dead
,
as
one
must
,
are
you
Content
to
take
th’
other
to
your
husband
?
They
cannot
both
enjoy
you
.
They
are
princes
As
goodly
as
your
own
eyes
,
and
as
noble
As
ever
fame
yet
spoke
of
.
Look
upon
’em
,
And
,
if
you
can
love
,
end
this
difference
.
I
give
consent
.
—
Are
you
content
too
,
princes
?
How he looks !
I
made
in
to
her
.
She
saw
me
,
and
straight
sought
the
flood
.
I
saved
her
And
set
her
safe
to
land
,
when
presently
She
slipped
away
,
and
to
the
city
made
With
such
a
cry
and
swiftness
that
,
believe
me
,
She
left
me
far
behind
her
.
Three
or
four
I
saw
from
far
off
cross
her
—
one
of
’em
I
knew
to
be
your
brother
—
where
she
stayed
And
fell
,
scarce
to
be
got
away
.
I
left
them
with
her
And
hither
came
to
tell
you
.
Here
they
are
.
But
she
shall
never
have
him
—
tell
her
so
—
for
a
trick
that
I
know
;
you’d
best
look
to
her
,
for
if
she
see
him
once
,
she’s
gone
,
she’s
done
and
undone
in
an
hour
.
All
the
young
maids
of
our
town
are
in
love
with
him
,
but
I
laugh
at
’em
and
let
’em
all
alone
.
Is
’t
not
a
wise
course
?
Yet
I
may
bind
those
wounds
up
that
must
open
And
bleed
to
death
for
my
sake
else
.
I’ll
choose
,
And
end
their
strife
.
Two
such
young
handsome
men
Shall
never
fall
for
me
;
their
weeping
mothers
,
Following
the
dead
cold
ashes
of
their
sons
,
Shall
never
curse
my
cruelty
.
Good
heaven
,
What
a
sweet
face
has
Arcite
!
If
wise
Nature
,
With
all
her
best
endowments
,
all
those
beauties
She
sows
into
the
births
of
noble
bodies
,
Were
here
a
mortal
woman
,
and
had
in
her
The
coy
denials
of
young
maids
,
yet
doubtless
She
would
run
mad
for
this
man
.
What
an
eye
,
Of
what
a
fiery
sparkle
and
quick
sweetness
,
Has
this
young
prince
!
Here
Love
himself
sits
smiling
;
Just
such
another
wanton
Ganymede
Set
Jove
afire
with
,
and
enforced
the
god
Snatch
up
the
goodly
boy
and
set
him
by
him
,
A
shining
constellation
.
What
a
brow
,
Of
what
a
spacious
majesty
,
he
carries
,
Arched
like
the
great-eyed
Juno’s
but
far
sweeter
,
Smoother
than
Pelops’
shoulder
!
Fame
and
Honor
,
Methinks
,
from
hence
as
from
a
promontory
Pointed
in
heaven
,
should
clap
their
wings
and
sing
To
all
the
under
world
the
loves
and
fights
Of
gods
and
such
men
near
’em
.
Palamon
Is
but
his
foil
,
to
him
a
mere
dull
shadow
;
He’s
swart
and
meager
,
of
an
eye
as
heavy
As
if
he
had
lost
his
mother
;
a
still
temper
,
No
stirring
in
him
,
no
alacrity
;
Of
all
this
sprightly
sharpness
not
a
smile
.
Yet
these
that
we
count
errors
may
become
him
;
Narcissus
was
a
sad
boy
but
a
heavenly
.
O
,
who
can
find
the
bent
of
woman’s
fancy
?
I
am
a
fool
;
my
reason
is
lost
in
me
;
I
have
no
choice
,
and
I
have
lied
so
lewdly
That
women
ought
to
beat
me
.
On
my
knees
I
ask
thy
pardon
:
Palamon
,
thou
art
alone
And
only
beautiful
,
and
these
the
eyes
,
These
the
bright
lamps
of
beauty
,
that
command
And
threaten
love
,
and
what
young
maid
dare
cross
’em
?
What
a
bold
gravity
,
and
yet
inviting
,
Has
this
brown
manly
face
!
O
Love
,
this
only
From
this
hour
is
complexion
.
Lie
there
,
Arcite
.
Thou
art
a
changeling
to
him
,
a
mere
gypsy
,
And
this
the
noble
body
.
I
am
sotted
,
Utterly
lost
.
My
virgin’s
faith
has
fled
me
.
For
if
my
brother
but
even
now
had
asked
me
Whether
I
loved
,
I
had
run
mad
for
Arcite
.
Now
,
if
my
sister
,
more
for
Palamon
.
Stand
both
together
.
Now
,
come
ask
me
,
brother
.
Alas
,
I
know
not
!
Ask
me
now
,
sweet
sister
.
I
may
go
look
!
What
a
mere
child
is
Fancy
,
That
,
having
two
fair
gauds
of
equal
sweetness
,
Cannot
distinguish
,
but
must
cry
for
both
.
How
now
,
sir
?
Would
I
might
end
first
!
What
sins
have
I
committed
,
chaste
Diana
,
That
my
unspotted
youth
must
now
be
soiled
With
blood
of
princes
,
and
my
chastity
Be
made
the
altar
where
the
lives
of
lovers
—
Two
greater
and
two
better
never
yet
Made
mothers
joy
—
must
be
the
sacrifice
To
my
unhappy
beauty
?
I
will
,
sir
,
And
truly
what
I
think
.
Six
braver
spirits
Than
these
they
have
brought
,
if
we
judge
by
the
outside
,
I
never
saw
nor
read
of
.
He
that
stands
In
the
first
place
with
Arcite
,
by
his
seeming
,
Should
be
a
stout
man
,
by
his
face
a
prince
—
His
very
looks
so
say
him
;
his
complexion
Nearer
a
brown
than
black
—
stern
and
yet
noble
—
Which
shows
him
hardy
,
fearless
,
proud
of
dangers
;
The
circles
of
his
eyes
show
fire
within
him
,
And
as
a
heated
lion
,
so
he
looks
.
His
hair
hangs
long
behind
him
,
black
and
shining
Like
ravens’
wings
;
his
shoulders
broad
and
strong
,
Armed
long
and
round
;
and
on
his
thigh
a
sword
Hung
by
a
curious
baldric
,
when
he
frowns
To
seal
his
will
with
.
Better
,
o’
my
conscience
,
Was
never
soldier’s
friend
.
There’s
another
—
A
little
man
,
but
of
a
tough
soul
,
seeming
As
great
as
any
;
fairer
promises
In
such
a
body
yet
I
never
looked
on
.
I
wish
it
,
But
not
the
cause
,
my
lord
.
They
would
show
Bravely
about
the
titles
of
two
kingdoms
;
’Tis
pity
love
should
be
so
tyrannous
.
—
O
,
my
soft-hearted
sister
,
what
think
you
?
Weep
not
till
they
weep
blood
.
Wench
,
it
must
be
.
She
is
continually
in
a
harmless
distemper
,
sleeps
little
,
altogether
without
appetite
,
save
often
drinking
,
dreaming
of
another
world
,
and
a
better
;
and
what
broken
piece
of
matter
soe’er
she’s
about
,
the
name
Palamon
lards
it
,
that
she
farces
ev’ry
business
withal
,
fits
it
to
every
question
.
Look
where
she
comes
;
you
shall
perceive
her
behavior
.
Farewell
,
sir
.
Knights
,
kinsmen
,
lovers
,
yea
,
my
sacrifices
,
True
worshippers
of
Mars
,
whose
spirit
in
you
Expels
the
seeds
of
fear
and
th’
apprehension
Which
still
is
father
of
it
,
go
with
me
Before
the
god
of
our
profession
.
There
Require
of
him
the
hearts
of
lions
and
The
breath
of
tigers
,
yea
,
the
fierceness
too
,
Yea
,
the
speed
also
—
to
go
on
,
I
mean
;
Else
wish
we
to
be
snails
.
You
know
my
prize
Must
be
dragged
out
of
blood
;
force
and
great
feat
Must
put
my
garland
on
,
where
she
sticks
,
The
queen
of
flowers
.
Our
intercession
,
then
,
Must
be
to
him
that
makes
the
camp
a
cistern
Brimmed
with
the
blood
of
men
.
Give
me
your
aid
,
And
bend
your
spirits
towards
him
.
Thou
mighty
one
,
that
with
thy
power
hast
turned
Green
Neptune
into
purple
,
whose
approach
Comets
prewarn
,
whose
havoc
in
vast
field
Unearthèd
skulls
proclaim
,
whose
breath
blows
down
The
teeming
Ceres’
foison
,
who
dost
pluck
With
hand
armipotent
from
forth
blue
clouds
The
masoned
turrets
,
that
both
mak’st
and
break’st
The
stony
girths
of
cities
;
me
thy
pupil
,
Youngest
follower
of
thy
drum
,
instruct
this
day
With
military
skill
,
that
to
thy
laud
I
may
advance
my
streamer
,
and
by
thee
Be
styled
the
lord
o’
th’
day
.
Give
me
,
great
Mars
,
Some
token
of
thy
pleasure
.
O
,
great
corrector
of
enormous
times
,
Shaker
of
o’er-rank
states
,
thou
grand
decider
Of
dusty
and
old
titles
,
that
heal’st
with
blood
The
Earth
earth
when
it
is
sick
,
and
cur’st
the
world
O’
th’
pleurisy
of
people
,
I
do
take
Thy
signs
auspiciously
,
and
in
thy
name
To
my
design
march
boldly
.
—
Let
us
go
.
O
sacred
,
shadowy
,
cold
,
and
constant
queen
,
Abandoner
of
revels
,
mute
contemplative
,
Sweet
,
solitary
,
white
as
chaste
,
and
pure
As
wind-fanned
snow
,
who
to
thy
female
knights
Allow’st
no
more
blood
than
will
make
a
blush
,
Which
is
their
order’s
robe
,
I
here
,
thy
priest
,
Am
humbled
’fore
thine
altar
.
O
,
vouchsafe
With
that
thy
rare
green
eye
,
which
never
yet
Beheld
thing
maculate
,
look
on
thy
virgin
,
And
,
sacred
silver
mistress
,
lend
thine
ear
—
Which
ne’er
heard
scurrile
term
,
into
whose
port
Ne’er
entered
wanton
sound
—
to
my
petition
,
Seasoned
with
holy
fear
.
This
is
my
last
Of
vestal
office
.
I
am
bride-habited
But
maiden-hearted
.
A
husband
I
have
’pointed
,
But
do
not
know
him
.
Out
of
two
I
should
Choose
one
,
and
pray
for
his
success
,
but
I
Am
guiltless
of
election
.
Of
mine
eyes
,
Were
I
to
lose
one
—
they
are
equal
precious
—
I
could
doom
neither
;
that
which
perished
should
Go
to
’t
unsentenced
.
Therefore
,
most
modest
queen
,
He
of
the
two
pretenders
that
best
loves
me
And
has
the
truest
title
in
’t
,
let
him
Take
off
my
wheaten
garland
,
or
else
grant
The
file
and
quality
I
hold
I
may
Continue
in
thy
band
.
See
what
our
general
of
ebbs
and
flows
Out
from
the
bowels
of
her
holy
altar
With
sacred
act
advances
:
but
one
rose
.
If
well
inspired
,
this
battle
shall
confound
Both
these
brave
knights
,
and
I
,
a
virgin
flower
,
Must
grow
alone
unplucked
.
The
flower
is
fall’n
,
the
tree
descends
.
O
mistress
,
Thou
here
dischargest
me
.
I
shall
be
gathered
;
I
think
so
,
but
I
know
not
thine
own
will
.
Unclasp
thy
mystery
!
—
I
hope
she’s
pleased
;
Her
signs
were
gracious
.
Then
he
has
won
.
’Twas
ever
likely
.
He
looked
all
grace
and
success
,
and
he
is
Doubtless
the
prim’st
of
men
.
I
prithee
run
And
tell
me
how
it
goes
.
Half-sights
saw
That
Arcite
was
no
babe
.
God’s
lid
,
his
richness
And
costliness
of
spirit
looked
through
him
;
it
could
No
more
be
hid
in
him
than
fire
in
flax
,
Than
humble
banks
can
go
to
law
with
waters
That
drift-winds
force
to
raging
.
I
did
think
Good
Palamon
would
miscarry
,
yet
I
knew
not
Why
I
did
think
so
.
Our
reasons
are
not
prophets
When
oft
our
fancies
are
.
They
are
coming
off
.
Alas
,
poor
Palamon
!
Never
Fortune
Did
play
a
subtler
game
.
The
conquered
triumphs
;
The
victor
has
the
loss
;
yet
in
the
passage
The
gods
have
been
most
equal
.
—
Palamon
,
Your
kinsman
hath
confessed
the
right
o’
th’
lady
Did
lie
in
you
,
for
you
first
saw
her
and
Even
then
proclaimed
your
fancy
.
He
restored
her
As
your
stol’n
jewel
and
desired
your
spirit
To
send
him
hence
forgiven
.
The
gods
my
justice
Take
from
my
hand
and
they
themselves
become
The
executioners
.
Lead
your
lady
off
,
And
call
your
lovers
from
the
stage
of
death
,
Whom
I
adopt
my
friends
.
A
day
or
two
Let
us
look
sadly
,
and
give
grace
unto
The
funeral
of
Arcite
,
in
whose
end
The
visages
of
bridegrooms
we’ll
put
on
And
smile
with
Palamon
—
for
whom
an
hour
,
But
one
hour
since
,
I
was
as
dearly
sorry
As
glad
of
Arcite
,
and
am
now
as
glad
As
for
him
sorry
.
O
you
heavenly
charmers
,
What
things
you
make
of
us
!
For
what
we
lack
We
laugh
,
for
what
we
have
are
sorry
,
still
Are
children
in
some
kind
.
Let
us
be
thankful
For
that
which
is
,
and
with
you
leave
dispute
That
are
above
our
question
.
Let’s
go
off
And
bear
us
like
the
time
.
I
would
now
ask
you
how
you
like
the
play
,
But
,
as
it
is
with
schoolboys
,
cannot
say
.
I
am
cruel
fearful
!
Pray
yet
,
stay
a
while
,
And
let
me
look
upon
you
.
No
man
smile
?
Then
it
goes
hard
,
I
see
.
He
that
has
Loved
a
young
handsome
wench
,
then
,
show
his
face
—
’Tis
strange
if
none
be
here
—
and
,
if
he
will
,
Against
his
conscience
let
him
hiss
and
kill
Our
market
.
’Tis
in
vain
,
I
see
,
to
stay
you
.
Have
at
the
worst
can
come
,
then
!
Now
what
say
you
?
And
yet
mistake
me
not
:
I
am
not
bold
.
We
have
no
such
cause
.
If
the
tale
we
have
told
—
For
’tis
no
other
—
any
way
content
you
—
For
to
that
honest
purpose
it
was
meant
you
—
We
have
our
end
;
and
you
shall
have
ere
long
,
I
dare
say
,
many
a
better
,
to
prolong
Your
old
loves
to
us
.
We
,
and
all
our
might
,
Rest
at
your
service
.
Gentlemen
,
good
night
.
We
were
as
twinned
lambs
that
did
frisk
i’
th’
sun
And
bleat
the
one
at
th’
other
.
What
we
changed
Was
innocence
for
innocence
.
We
knew
not
The
doctrine
of
ill-doing
,
nor
dreamed
That
any
did
.
Had
we
pursued
that
life
,
And
our
weak
spirits
ne’er
been
higher
reared
With
stronger
blood
,
we
should
have
answered
heaven
Boldly
Not
guilty
,
the
imposition
cleared
Hereditary
ours
.
Too
hot
,
too
hot
!
To
mingle
friendship
far
is
mingling
bloods
.
I
have
tremor
cordis
on
me
.
My
heart
dances
,
But
not
for
joy
,
not
joy
.
This
entertainment
May
a
free
face
put
on
,
derive
a
liberty
From
heartiness
,
from
bounty
,
fertile
bosom
,
And
well
become
the
agent
.
’T
may
,
I
grant
.
But
to
be
paddling
palms
and
pinching
fingers
,
As
now
they
are
,
and
making
practiced
smiles
As
in
a
looking
glass
,
and
then
to
sigh
,
as
’twere
The
mort
o’
th’
deer
—
O
,
that
is
entertainment
My
bosom
likes
not
,
nor
my
brows
.
—
Mamillius
,
Art
thou
my
boy
?
Thou
want’st
a
rough
pash
and
the
shoots
that
I
have
To
be
full
like
me
;
yet
they
say
we
are
Almost
as
like
as
eggs
.
Women
say
so
,
That
will
say
anything
.
But
were
they
false
As
o’erdyed
blacks
,
as
wind
,
as
waters
,
false
As
dice
are
to
be
wished
by
one
that
fixes
No
bourn
’twixt
his
and
mine
,
yet
were
it
true
To
say
this
boy
were
like
me
.
Come
,
sir
page
,
Look
on
me
with
your
welkin
eye
.
Sweet
villain
,
Most
dear’st
,
my
collop
!
Can
thy
dam
?
—
may
’t
be
?
—
Affection
,
thy
intention
stabs
the
center
.
Thou
dost
make
possible
things
not
so
held
,
Communicat’st
with
dreams
—
how
can
this
be
?
With
what’s
unreal
thou
coactive
art
,
And
fellow’st
nothing
.
Then
’tis
very
credent
Thou
may’st
co-join
with
something
;
and
thou
dost
,
And
that
beyond
commission
,
and
I
find
it
,
And
that
to
the
infection
of
my
brains
And
hard’ning
of
my
brows
.
You
look
As
if
you
held
a
brow
of
much
distraction
.
Are
you
moved
,
my
lord
?
No
,
in
good
earnest
.
How
sometimes
nature
will
betray
its
folly
,
Its
tenderness
,
and
make
itself
a
pastime
To
harder
bosoms
!
Looking
on
the
lines
Of
my
boy’s
face
,
methoughts
I
did
recoil
Twenty-three
years
,
and
saw
myself
unbreeched
,
In
my
green
velvet
coat
,
my
dagger
muzzled
Lest
it
should
bite
its
master
and
so
prove
,
As
ornaments
oft
do
,
too
dangerous
.
How
like
,
methought
,
I
then
was
to
this
kernel
,
This
squash
,
this
gentleman
.
—
Mine
honest
friend
,
Will
you
take
eggs
for
money
?
If
at
home
,
sir
,
He’s
all
my
exercise
,
my
mirth
,
my
matter
,
Now
my
sworn
friend
and
then
mine
enemy
,
My
parasite
,
my
soldier
,
statesman
,
all
.
He
makes
a
July’s
day
short
as
December
,
And
with
his
varying
childness
cures
in
me
Thoughts
that
would
thick
my
blood
.
Make
that
thy
question
,
and
go
rot
!
Dost
think
I
am
so
muddy
,
so
unsettled
,
To
appoint
myself
in
this
vexation
,
sully
The
purity
and
whiteness
of
my
sheets
—
Which
to
preserve
is
sleep
,
which
being
spotted
Is
goads
,
thorns
,
nettles
,
tails
of
wasps
—
Give
scandal
to
the
blood
o’
th’
Prince
,
my
son
,
Who
I
do
think
is
mine
and
love
as
mine
,
Without
ripe
moving
to
’t
?
Would
I
do
this
?
Could
man
so
blench
?
How
caught
of
me
?
Make
me
not
sighted
like
the
basilisk
.
I
have
looked
on
thousands
who
have
sped
the
better
By
my
regard
,
but
killed
none
so
.
Camillo
,
As
you
are
certainly
a
gentleman
,
thereto
Clerklike
experienced
,
which
no
less
adorns
Our
gentry
than
our
parents’
noble
names
,
In
whose
success
we
are
gentle
,
I
beseech
you
,
If
you
know
aught
which
does
behoove
my
knowledge
Thereof
to
be
informed
,
imprison
’t
not
In
ignorant
concealment
.
O
,
then
my
best
blood
turn
To
an
infected
jelly
,
and
my
name
Be
yoked
with
his
that
did
betray
the
Best
!
Turn
then
my
freshest
reputation
to
A
savor
that
may
strike
the
dullest
nostril
Where
I
arrive
,
and
my
approach
be
shunned
,
Nay
,
hated
too
,
worse
than
the
great’st
infection
That
e’er
was
heard
or
read
.
I
know
’t
too
well
.
Give
me
the
boy
.
I
am
glad
you
did
not
nurse
him
.
Though
he
does
bear
some
signs
of
me
,
yet
you
Have
too
much
blood
in
him
.
You
,
my
lords
,
Look
on
her
,
mark
her
well
.
Be
but
about
To
say
She
is
a
goodly
lady
,
and
The
justice
of
your
hearts
will
thereto
add
’Tis
pity
she’s
not
honest
,
honorable
.
Praise
her
but
for
this
her
without-door
form
,
Which
on
my
faith
deserves
high
speech
,
and
straight
The
shrug
,
the
hum
,
or
ha
,
these
petty
brands
That
calumny
doth
use
—
O
,
I
am
out
,
That
mercy
does
,
for
calumny
will
sear
Virtue
itself
—
these
shrugs
,
these
hum
s
and
ha
s
,
When
you
have
said
she’s
goodly
,
come
between
Ere
you
can
say
she’s
honest
.
But
be
’t
known
,
From
him
that
has
most
cause
to
grieve
it
should
be
,
She’s
an
adult’ress
.
There’s
some
ill
planet
reigns
.
I
must
be
patient
till
the
heavens
look
With
an
aspect
more
favorable
.
Good
my
lords
,
I
am
not
prone
to
weeping
,
as
our
sex
Commonly
are
,
the
want
of
which
vain
dew
Perchance
shall
dry
your
pities
.
But
I
have
That
honorable
grief
lodged
here
which
burns
Worse
than
tears
drown
.
Beseech
you
all
,
my
lords
,
With
thoughts
so
qualified
as
your
charities
Shall
best
instruct
you
,
measure
me
;
and
so
The
King’s
will
be
performed
.
I
dare
be
sworn
.
These
dangerous
unsafe
lunes
i’
th’
King
,
beshrew
them
!
He
must
be
told
on
’t
,
and
he
shall
.
The
office
Becomes
a
woman
best
.
I’ll
take
’t
upon
me
.
If
I
prove
honey-mouthed
,
let
my
tongue
blister
And
never
to
my
red-looked
anger
be
The
trumpet
anymore
.
Pray
you
,
Emilia
,
Commend
my
best
obedience
to
the
Queen
.
If
she
dares
trust
me
with
her
little
babe
,
I’ll
show
’t
the
King
and
undertake
to
be
Her
advocate
to
th’
loud’st
We
do
not
know
How
he
may
soften
at
the
sight
o’
th’
child
.
The
silence
often
of
pure
innocence
Persuades
when
speaking
fails
.
I
pray
you
do
not
push
me
;
I’ll
be
gone
.
—
Look
to
your
babe
,
my
lord
;
’tis
yours
.
Jove
send
her
A
better
guiding
spirit
.
—
What
needs
these
hands
?
You
that
are
thus
so
tender
o’er
his
follies
Will
never
do
him
good
,
not
one
of
you
.
So
,
so
.
Farewell
,
we
are
gone
.
Beseech
your
Highness
,
give
us
better
credit
.
We
have
always
truly
served
you
,
and
beseech
So
to
esteem
of
us
.
And
on
our
knees
we
beg
,
As
recompense
of
our
dear
services
Past
and
to
come
,
that
you
do
change
this
purpose
,
Which
being
so
horrible
,
so
bloody
,
must
Lead
on
to
some
foul
issue
.
We
all
kneel
.
Anything
,
my
lord
,
That
my
ability
may
undergo
And
nobleness
impose
.
At
least
thus
much
:
I’ll
pawn
the
little
blood
which
I
have
left
To
save
the
innocent
.
Anything
possible
.
Your
actions
are
my
dreams
.
You
had
a
bastard
by
Polixenes
,
And
I
but
dreamed
it
.
As
you
were
past
all
shame
—
Those
of
your
fact
are
so
—
so
past
all
truth
,
Which
to
deny
concerns
more
than
avails
;
for
as
Thy
brat
hath
been
cast
out
,
like
to
itself
,
No
father
owning
it
—
which
is
indeed
More
criminal
in
thee
than
it
—
so
thou
Shalt
feel
our
justice
,
in
whose
easiest
passage
Look
for
no
less
than
death
.
This
news
is
mortal
to
the
Queen
.
Look
down
And
see
what
death
is
doing
.
Take
her
hence
.
Her
heart
is
but
o’ercharged
.
She
will
recover
.
I
have
too
much
believed
mine
own
suspicion
.
Beseech
you
,
tenderly
apply
to
her
Some
remedies
for
life
.
Apollo
,
pardon
My
great
profaneness
’gainst
thine
oracle
.
I’ll
reconcile
me
to
Polixenes
,
New
woo
my
queen
,
recall
the
good
Camillo
,
Whom
I
proclaim
a
man
of
truth
,
of
mercy
;
For
,
being
transported
by
my
jealousies
To
bloody
thoughts
and
to
revenge
,
I
chose
Camillo
for
the
minister
to
poison
My
friend
Polixenes
,
which
had
been
done
But
that
the
good
mind
of
Camillo
tardied
My
swift
command
,
though
I
with
death
and
with
Reward
did
threaten
and
encourage
him
,
Not
doing
it
and
being
done
.
He
,
most
humane
And
filled
with
honor
,
to
my
kingly
guest
Unclasped
my
practice
,
quit
his
fortunes
here
,
Which
you
knew
great
,
and
to
the
hazard
Of
all
incertainties
himself
commended
,
No
richer
than
his
honor
.
How
he
glisters
Through
my
rust
,
and
how
his
piety
Does
my
deeds
make
the
blacker
!
I
say
she’s
dead
.
I’ll
swear
’t
.
If
word
nor
oath
Prevail
not
,
go
and
see
.
If
you
can
bring
Tincture
or
luster
in
her
lip
,
her
eye
,
Heat
outwardly
or
breath
within
,
I’ll
serve
you
As
I
would
do
the
gods
.
—
But
,
O
thou
tyrant
,
Do
not
repent
these
things
,
for
they
are
heavier
Than
all
thy
woes
can
stir
.
Therefore
betake
thee
To
nothing
but
despair
.
A
thousand
knees
Ten
thousand
years
together
,
naked
,
fasting
,
Upon
a
barren
mountain
,
and
still
winter
In
storm
perpetual
,
could
not
move
the
gods
To
look
that
way
thou
wert
.
Ay
,
my
lord
,
and
fear
We
have
landed
in
ill
time
.
The
skies
look
grimly
And
threaten
present
blusters
.
In
my
conscience
,
The
heavens
with
that
we
have
in
hand
are
angry
And
frown
upon
’s
.
Their
sacred
wills
be
done
.
Go
,
get
aboard
.
Look
to
thy
bark
.
I’ll
not
be
long
before
I
call
upon
thee
.
Heavy
matters
,
heavy
matters
.
But
look
thee
here
,
boy
.
Now
bless
thyself
.
Thou
met’st
with
things
dying
,
I
with
things
newborn
.
Here’s
a
sight
for
thee
.
Look
thee
,
a
bearing
cloth
for
a
squire’s
child
.
Look
thee
here
.
Take
up
,
take
up
,
boy
.
Open
’t
.
So
,
let’s
see
.
It
was
told
me
I
should
be
rich
by
the
fairies
.
This
is
some
changeling
.
Open
’t
.
What’s
within
,
boy
?
I
have
considered
so
much
,
Camillo
,
and
with
some
care
,
so
far
that
I
have
eyes
under
my
service
which
look
upon
his
removedness
,
from
whom
I
have
this
intelligence
:
that
he
is
seldom
from
the
house
of
a
most
homely
shepherd
,
a
man
,
they
say
,
that
from
very
nothing
,
and
beyond
the
imagination
of
his
neighbors
,
is
grown
into
an
unspeakable
estate
.
When
daffodils
begin
to
peer
,
With
heigh
,
the
doxy
over
the
dale
,
Why
,
then
comes
in
the
sweet
o’
the
year
,
For
the
red
blood
reigns
in
the
winter’s
pale
.
The
white
sheet
bleaching
on
the
hedge
,
With
heigh
,
the
sweet
birds
,
O
how
they
sing
!
Doth
set
my
pugging
tooth
an
edge
,
For
a
quart
of
ale
is
a
dish
for
a
king
.
The
lark
,
that
tirralirra
chants
,
With
heigh
,
with
heigh
,
the
thrush
and
the
jay
,
Are
summer
songs
for
me
and
my
aunts
,
While
we
lie
tumbling
in
the
hay
.
I
have
served
Prince
Florizell
and
in
my
time
wore
three-pile
,
but
now
I
am
out
of
service
.
But
shall
I
go
mourn
for
that
,
my
dear
?
The
pale
moon
shines
by
night
,
And
when
I
wander
here
and
there
,
I
then
do
most
go
right
.
If
tinkers
may
have
leave
to
live
,
And
bear
the
sow-skin
budget
,
Then
my
account
I
well
may
give
,
And
in
the
stocks
avouch
it
.
My
traffic
is
sheets
.
When
the
kite
builds
,
look
to
lesser
linen
.
My
father
named
me
Autolycus
,
who
,
being
,
as
I
am
,
littered
under
Mercury
,
was
likewise
a
snapper-up
of
unconsidered
trifles
.
With
die
and
drab
I
purchased
this
caparison
,
and
my
revenue
is
the
silly
cheat
.
Gallows
and
knock
are
too
powerful
on
the
highway
.
Beating
and
hanging
are
terrors
to
me
.
For
the
life
to
come
,
I
sleep
out
the
thought
of
it
.
A
prize
,
a
prize
!
Not
a
more
cowardly
rogue
in
all
Bohemia
.
If
you
had
but
looked
big
and
spit
at
him
,
he’d
have
run
.
Now
Jove
afford
you
cause
.
To
me
the
difference
forges
dread
.
Your
greatness
Hath
not
been
used
to
fear
.
Even
now
I
tremble
To
think
your
father
by
some
accident
Should
pass
this
way
as
you
did
.
O
the
Fates
,
How
would
he
look
to
see
his
work
,
so
noble
,
Vilely
bound
up
?
What
would
he
say
?
Or
how
Should
I
,
in
these
my
borrowed
flaunts
,
behold
The
sternness
of
his
presence
?
O
Doricles
,
Your
praises
are
too
large
.
But
that
your
youth
And
the
true
blood
which
peeps
fairly
through
’t
Do
plainly
give
you
out
an
unstained
shepherd
,
With
wisdom
I
might
fear
,
my
Doricles
,
You
wooed
me
the
false
way
.
He
tells
her
something
That
makes
her
blood
look
out
.
Good
sooth
,
she
is
The
queen
of
curds
and
cream
.
They
call
him
Doricles
,
and
boasts
himself
To
have
a
worthy
feeding
.
But
I
have
it
Upon
his
own
report
,
and
I
believe
it
.
He
looks
like
sooth
.
He
says
he
loves
my
daughter
.
I
think
so
too
,
for
never
gazed
the
moon
Upon
the
water
as
he’ll
stand
and
read
,
As
’twere
,
my
daughter’s
eyes
.
And
,
to
be
plain
,
I
think
there
is
not
half
a
kiss
to
choose
Who
loves
another
best
.
Old
sir
,
I
know
She
prizes
not
such
trifles
as
these
are
.
The
gifts
she
looks
from
me
are
packed
and
locked
Up
in
my
heart
,
which
I
have
given
already
,
But
not
delivered
.
O
,
hear
me
breathe
my
life
Before
this
ancient
sir
,
who
,
it
should
seem
,
Hath
sometime
loved
.
I
take
thy
hand
,
this
hand
As
soft
as
dove’s
down
and
as
white
as
it
,
Or
Ethiopian’s
tooth
,
or
the
fanned
snow
that’s
bolted
By
th’
northern
blasts
twice
o’er
.
I’ll
have
thy
beauty
scratched
with
briers
and
made
More
homely
than
thy
state
.
—
For
thee
,
fond
boy
,
If
I
may
ever
know
thou
dost
but
sigh
That
thou
no
more
shalt
see
this
knack
—
as
never
I
mean
thou
shalt
—
we’ll
bar
thee
from
succession
,
Not
hold
thee
of
our
blood
,
no
,
not
our
kin
,
Far’r
than
Deucalion
off
.
Mark
thou
my
words
.
Follow
us
to
the
court
.
Thou
,
churl
,
for
this
time
,
Though
full
of
our
displeasure
,
yet
we
free
thee
From
the
dead
blow
of
it
.
—
And
you
,
enchantment
,
Worthy
enough
a
herdsman
—
yea
,
him
too
,
That
makes
himself
,
but
for
our
honor
therein
,
Unworthy
thee
—
if
ever
henceforth
thou
These
rural
latches
to
his
entrance
open
,
Or
hoop
his
body
more
with
thy
embraces
,
I
will
devise
a
death
as
cruel
for
thee
As
thou
art
tender
to
’t
.
Even
here
undone
.
I
was
not
much
afeard
,
for
once
or
twice
I
was
about
to
speak
and
tell
him
plainly
The
selfsame
sun
that
shines
upon
his
court
Hides
not
his
visage
from
our
cottage
but
Looks
on
alike
.
Will
’t
please
you
,
sir
,
be
gone
?
I
told
you
what
would
come
of
this
.
Beseech
you
,
Of
your
own
state
take
care
.
This
dream
of
mine
—
Being
now
awake
,
I’ll
queen
it
no
inch
farther
,
But
milk
my
ewes
and
weep
.
Why
look
you
so
upon
me
?
I
am
but
sorry
,
not
afeard
;
delayed
,
But
nothing
altered
.
What
I
was
,
I
am
,
More
straining
on
for
plucking
back
,
not
following
My
leash
unwillingly
.
It
cannot
fail
but
by
The
violation
of
my
faith
;
and
then
Let
nature
crush
the
sides
o’
th’
Earth
earth
together
And
mar
the
seeds
within
.
Lift
up
thy
looks
.
From
my
succession
wipe
me
,
father
.
I
Am
heir
to
my
affection
.
See
,
see
,
what
a
man
you
are
now
!
There
is
no
other
way
but
to
tell
the
King
she’s
a
changeling
and
none
of
your
flesh
and
blood
.
She
being
none
of
your
flesh
and
blood
,
your
flesh
and
blood
has
not
offended
the
King
,
and
so
your
flesh
and
blood
is
not
to
be
punished
by
him
.
Show
those
things
you
found
about
her
,
those
secret
things
,
all
but
what
she
has
with
her
.
This
being
done
,
let
the
law
go
whistle
,
I
warrant
you
.
Indeed
,
brother-in-law
was
the
farthest
off
you
could
have
been
to
him
,
and
then
your
blood
had
been
the
dearer
by
I
know
how
much
an
ounce
.
He
has
a
son
,
who
shall
be
flayed
alive
;
then
’nointed
over
with
honey
,
set
on
the
head
of
a
wasps’-nest
;
then
stand
till
he
be
three-quarters
and
a
dram
dead
,
then
recovered
again
with
aqua
vitae
or
some
other
hot
infusion
;
then
,
raw
as
he
is
,
and
in
the
hottest
day
prognostication
proclaims
,
shall
he
be
set
against
a
brick
wall
,
the
sun
looking
with
a
southward
eye
upon
him
,
where
he
is
to
behold
him
with
flies
blown
to
death
.
But
what
talk
we
of
these
traitorly
rascals
,
whose
miseries
are
to
be
smiled
at
,
their
offenses
being
so
capital
?
Tell
me
—
for
you
seem
to
be
honest
plain
men
—
what
you
have
to
the
King
.
Being
something
gently
considered
,
I’ll
bring
you
where
he
is
aboard
,
tender
your
persons
to
his
presence
,
whisper
him
in
your
behalfs
;
and
if
it
be
in
man
besides
the
King
to
effect
your
suits
,
here
is
man
shall
do
it
.
I
will
trust
you
.
Walk
before
toward
the
seaside
.
Go
on
the
right
hand
.
I
will
but
look
upon
the
hedge
,
and
follow
you
.
If
you
would
not
so
,
You
pity
not
the
state
nor
the
remembrance
Of
his
most
sovereign
name
,
consider
little
What
dangers
by
his
Highness’
fail
of
issue
May
drop
upon
his
kingdom
and
devour
Incertain
lookers-on
.
What
were
more
holy
Than
to
rejoice
the
former
queen
is
well
?
What
holier
than
,
for
royalty’s
repair
,
For
present
comfort
,
and
for
future
good
,
To
bless
the
bed
of
majesty
again
With
a
sweet
fellow
to
’t
?
Good
Paulina
,
Who
hast
the
memory
of
Hermione
,
I
know
,
in
honor
,
O
,
that
ever
I
Had
squared
me
to
thy
counsel
!
Then
even
now
I
might
have
looked
upon
my
queen’s
full
eyes
,
Have
taken
treasure
from
her
lips
—
Prithee
,
no
more
;
cease
.
Thou
know’st
He
dies
to
me
again
when
talked
of
.
Sure
,
When
I
shall
see
this
gentleman
,
thy
speeches
Will
bring
me
to
consider
that
which
may
Unfurnish
me
of
reason
.
They
are
come
.
Your
mother
was
most
true
to
wedlock
,
prince
,
For
she
did
print
your
royal
father
off
,
Conceiving
you
.
Were
I
but
twenty-one
,
Your
father’s
image
is
so
hit
in
you
,
His
very
air
,
that
I
should
call
you
brother
,
As
I
did
him
,
and
speak
of
something
wildly
By
us
performed
before
.
Most
dearly
welcome
,
And
your
fair
princess
—
goddess
!
O
,
alas
,
I
lost
a
couple
that
’twixt
heaven
and
Earth
earth
Might
thus
have
stood
,
begetting
wonder
,
as
You
,
gracious
couple
,
do
.
And
then
I
lost
—
All
mine
own
folly
—
the
society
,
Amity
too
,
of
your
brave
father
,
whom
,
Though
bearing
misery
,
I
desire
my
life
Once
more
to
look
on
him
.
By
his
command
Have
I
here
touched
Sicilia
,
and
from
him
Give
you
all
greetings
that
a
king
,
at
friend
,
Can
send
his
brother
.
And
but
infirmity
,
Which
waits
upon
worn
times
,
hath
something
seized
His
wished
ability
,
he
had
himself
The
lands
and
waters
’twixt
your
throne
and
his
Measured
to
look
upon
you
,
whom
he
loves
—
He
bade
me
say
so
—
more
than
all
the
scepters
And
those
that
bear
them
living
.
The
blessèd
gods
Purge
all
infection
from
our
air
whilst
you
Do
climate
here
!
You
have
a
holy
father
,
A
graceful
gentleman
,
against
whose
person
,
So
sacred
as
it
is
,
I
have
done
sin
,
For
which
the
heavens
,
taking
angry
note
,
Have
left
me
issueless
.
And
your
father’s
blest
,
As
he
from
heaven
merits
it
,
with
you
,
Worthy
his
goodness
.
What
might
I
have
been
Might
I
a
son
and
daughter
now
have
looked
on
,
Such
goodly
things
as
you
?
Dear
,
look
up
.
Though
Fortune
,
visible
an
enemy
,
Should
chase
us
with
my
father
,
power
no
jot
Hath
she
to
change
our
loves
.
—
Beseech
you
,
sir
,
Remember
since
you
owed
no
more
to
time
Than
I
do
now
.
With
thought
of
such
affections
,
Step
forth
mine
advocate
.
At
your
request
,
My
father
will
grant
precious
things
as
trifles
.
Sir
,
my
liege
,
Your
eye
hath
too
much
youth
in
’t
.
Not
a
month
’Fore
your
queen
died
,
she
was
more
worth
such
gazes
Than
what
you
look
on
now
.
I
thought
of
her
Even
in
these
looks
I
made
.
But
your
petition
Is
yet
unanswered
.
I
will
to
your
father
.
Your
honor
not
o’erthrown
by
your
desires
,
I
am
friend
to
them
and
you
.
Upon
which
errand
I
now
go
toward
him
.
Therefore
follow
me
,
And
mark
what
way
I
make
.
Come
,
good
my
lord
.
I
make
a
broken
delivery
of
the
business
,
but
the
changes
I
perceived
in
the
King
and
Camillo
were
very
notes
of
admiration
.
They
seemed
almost
,
with
staring
on
one
another
,
to
tear
the
cases
of
their
eyes
.
There
was
speech
in
their
dumbness
,
language
in
their
very
gesture
.
They
looked
as
they
had
heard
of
a
world
ransomed
,
or
one
destroyed
.
A
notable
passion
of
wonder
appeared
in
them
,
but
the
wisest
beholder
that
knew
no
more
but
seeing
could
not
say
if
th’
importance
were
joy
or
sorrow
;
but
in
the
extremity
of
the
one
it
must
needs
be
.
Here
comes
a
gentleman
that
happily
knows
more
.
—
The
news
,
Rogero
?
One
of
the
prettiest
touches
of
all
,
and
that
which
angled
for
mine
eyes
—
caught
the
water
,
though
not
the
fish
—
was
when
at
the
relation
of
the
Queen’s
death
—
with
the
manner
how
she
came
to
’t
bravely
confessed
and
lamented
by
the
King
—
how
attentiveness
wounded
his
daughter
,
till
,
from
one
sign
of
dolor
to
another
,
she
did
,
with
an
Alas
,
I
would
fain
say
bleed
tears
,
for
I
am
sure
my
heart
wept
blood
.
Who
was
most
marble
there
changed
color
;
some
swooned
,
all
sorrowed
.
If
all
the
world
could
have
seen
’t
,
the
woe
had
been
universal
.
O
Paulina
,
We
honor
you
with
trouble
.
But
we
came
To
see
the
statue
of
our
queen
.
Your
gallery
Have
we
passed
through
,
not
without
much
content
In
many
singularities
;
but
we
saw
not
That
which
my
daughter
came
to
look
upon
,
The
statue
of
her
mother
.
As
she
lived
peerless
,
So
her
dead
likeness
,
I
do
well
believe
,
Excels
whatever
yet
you
looked
upon
Or
hand
of
man
hath
done
.
Therefore
I
keep
it
Lonely
,
apart
.
But
here
it
is
.
Prepare
To
see
the
life
as
lively
mocked
as
ever
Still
sleep
mocked
death
.
Behold
,
and
say
’tis
well
.
I
like
your
silence
.
It
the
more
shows
off
Your
wonder
.
But
yet
speak
.
First
you
,
my
liege
.
Comes
it
not
something
near
?
Let
be
,
let
be
.
Would
I
were
dead
but
that
methinks
already
—
What
was
he
that
did
make
it
?
—
See
,
my
lord
,
Would
you
not
deem
it
breathed
?
And
that
those
veins
Did
verily
bear
blood
?
So
long
could
I
Stand
by
,
a
looker-on
.
What
you
can
make
her
do
I
am
content
to
look
on
;
what
to
speak
,
I
am
content
to
hear
,
for
’tis
as
easy
To
make
her
speak
as
move
.
Music
,
awake
her
!
Strike
!
’Tis
time
.
Descend
.
Be
stone
no
more
.
Approach
.
Strike
all
that
look
upon
with
marvel
.
Come
,
I’ll
fill
your
grave
up
.
Stir
,
nay
,
come
away
.
Bequeath
to
death
your
numbness
,
for
from
him
Dear
life
redeems
you
.
—
You
perceive
she
stirs
.
Start
not
.
Her
actions
shall
be
holy
as
You
hear
my
spell
is
lawful
.
Do
not
shun
her
Until
you
see
her
die
again
,
for
then
You
kill
her
double
.
Nay
,
present
your
hand
.
When
she
was
young
,
you
wooed
her
;
now
in
age
Is
she
become
the
suitor
?
You
gods
,
look
down
,
And
from
your
sacred
vials
pour
your
graces
Upon
my
daughter’s
head
!
Tell
me
,
mine
own
,
Where
hast
thou
been
preserved
?
Where
lived
?
How
found
Thy
father’s
court
?
For
thou
shalt
hear
that
I
,
Knowing
by
Paulina
that
the
oracle
Gave
hope
thou
wast
in
being
,
have
preserved
Myself
to
see
the
issue
.
O
peace
,
Paulina
.
Thou
shouldst
a
husband
take
by
my
consent
,
As
I
by
thine
a
wife
.
This
is
a
match
,
And
made
between
’s
by
vows
.
Thou
hast
found
mine
—
But
how
is
to
be
questioned
,
for
I
saw
her
,
As
I
thought
,
dead
,
and
have
in
vain
said
many
A
prayer
upon
her
grave
.
I’ll
not
seek
far
—
For
him
,
I
partly
know
his
mind
—
to
find
thee
An
honorable
husband
.
—
Come
,
Camillo
,
And
take
her
by
the
hand
,
whose
worth
and
honesty
Is
richly
noted
and
here
justified
By
us
,
a
pair
of
kings
.
Let’s
from
this
place
.
What
,
look
upon
my
brother
!
Both
your
pardons
That
e’er
I
put
between
your
holy
looks
My
ill
suspicion
.
This
your
son-in-law
And
son
unto
the
King
,
whom
heavens
directing
,
Is
troth-plight
to
your
daughter
.
—
Good
Paulina
,
Lead
us
from
hence
,
where
we
may
leisurely
Each
one
demand
and
answer
to
his
part
Performed
in
this
wide
gap
of
time
since
first
We
were
dissevered
.
Hastily
lead
away
.
’Tis
a
good
form
.
And rich . Here is a water , look ye .
Look , more .
You
see
this
confluence
,
this
great
flood
of
visitors
.
I
have
in
this
rough
work
shaped
out
a
man
Whom
this
beneath
world
doth
embrace
and
hug
With
amplest
entertainment
.
My
free
drift
Halts
not
particularly
but
moves
itself
In
a
wide
sea
of
wax
.
No
leveled
malice
Infects
one
comma
in
the
course
I
hold
,
But
flies
an
eagle
flight
,
bold
and
forth
on
,
Leaving
no
tract
behind
.
Look who comes here . Will you be chid ?
Then
thou
liest
.
Look
in
thy
last
work
,
where
thou
hast
feigned
him
a
worthy
fellow
.
I
scorn
thy
meat
.
’Twould
choke
me
,
for
I
should
ne’er
flatter
thee
.
O
you
gods
,
what
a
number
of
men
eats
Timon
,
and
he
sees
’em
not
!
It
grieves
me
to
see
so
many
dip
their
meat
in
one
man’s
blood
;
and
all
the
madness
is
,
he
cheers
them
up
too
.
I
wonder
men
dare
trust
themselves
with
men
.
Methinks
they
should
invite
them
without
knives
.
Good
for
their
meat
,
and
safer
for
their
lives
.
There’s
much
example
for
’t
.
The
fellow
that
sits
next
him
,
now
parts
bread
with
him
,
pledges
the
breath
of
him
in
a
divided
draft
,
is
the
readiest
man
to
kill
him
.
’T
’as
been
proved
.
If
I
were
a
huge
man
,
I
should
fear
to
drink
at
meals
,
Lest
they
should
spy
my
wind-pipe’s
dangerous
notes
.
Great
men
should
drink
with
harness
on
their
throats
.
Flow
this
way
?
A
brave
fellow
.
He
keeps
his
tides
well
.
Those
healths
will
make
thee
and
thy
state
look
ill
,
Timon
.
Here’s
that
which
is
too
weak
to
be
a
sinner
,
Honest
water
,
which
ne’er
left
man
i’
th’
mire
.
This
and
my
food
are
equals
.
There’s
no
odds
.
Feasts
are
too
proud
to
give
thanks
to
the
gods
.
Apemantus’
grace
.
Immortal
gods
,
I
crave
no
pelf
.
I
pray
for
no
man
but
myself
.
Grant
I
may
never
prove
so
fond
To
trust
man
on
his
oath
or
bond
,
Or
a
harlot
for
her
weeping
,
Or
a
dog
that
seems
a-sleeping
,
Or
a
keeper
with
my
freedom
,
Or
my
friends
if
I
should
need
’em
.
Amen
.
So
fall
to
’t
.
Rich
men
sin
,
and
I
eat
root
.
Much
good
dich
thy
good
heart
,
Apemantus
!
O
my
friends
,
I
have
one
word
To
say
to
you
.
Look
you
,
my
good
lord
,
I
must
entreat
you
,
honor
me
so
much
As
to
advance
this
jewel
.
Accept
it
and
wear
it
,
Kind
my
lord
.
Look you , here comes my master’s page .
They
answer
in
a
joint
and
corporate
voice
That
now
they
are
at
fall
,
want
treasure
,
cannot
Do
what
they
would
,
are
sorry
.
You
are
honorable
,
But
yet
they
could
have
wished
—
they
know
not
—
Something
hath
been
amiss
—
a
noble
nature
May
catch
a
wrench
—
would
all
were
well
—
’tis
pity
.
And
so
,
intending
other
serious
matters
,
After
distasteful
looks
and
these
hard
fractions
,
With
certain
half-caps
and
cold-moving
nods
They
froze
me
into
silence
.
You
gods
,
reward
them
!
Prithee
,
man
,
look
cheerly
.
These
old
fellows
Have
their
ingratitude
in
them
hereditary
.
Their
blood
is
caked
,
’tis
cold
,
it
seldom
flows
;
’Tis
lack
of
kindly
warmth
they
are
not
kind
;
And
nature
,
as
it
grows
again
toward
earth
,
Is
fashioned
for
the
journey
,
dull
and
heavy
.
Go
to
Ventidius
.
Prithee
,
be
not
sad
.
Thou
art
true
and
honest
—
ingeniously
I
speak
—
No
blame
belongs
to
thee
.
Ventidius
lately
Buried
his
father
,
by
whose
death
he’s
stepped
Into
a
great
estate
.
When
he
was
poor
,
Imprisoned
,
and
in
scarcity
of
friends
,
I
cleared
him
with
five
talents
.
Greet
him
from
me
.
Bid
him
suppose
some
good
necessity
Touches
his
friend
,
which
craves
to
be
remembered
With
those
five
talents
.
That
had
,
give
’t
these
fellows
To
whom
’tis
instant
due
.
Ne’er
speak
or
think
That
Timon’s
fortunes
’mong
his
friends
can
sink
.
I’ll
look
you
out
a
good
turn
,
Servilius
.
True
,
as
you
said
,
Timon
is
shrunk
indeed
,
And
he
that’s
once
denied
will
hardly
speed
.
Why
,
this
is
the
world’s
soul
,
and
just
of
the
same
piece
Is
every
flatterer’s
sport
.
Who
can
call
him
his
friend
That
dips
in
the
same
dish
?
For
,
in
my
knowing
,
Timon
has
been
this
lord’s
father
And
kept
his
credit
with
his
purse
,
Supported
his
estate
,
nay
,
Timon’s
money
Has
paid
his
men
their
wages
.
He
ne’er
drinks
But
Timon’s
silver
treads
upon
his
lip
.
And
yet
—
O
,
see
the
monstrousness
of
man
When
he
looks
out
in
an
ungrateful
shape
!
—
He
does
deny
him
,
in
respect
of
his
,
What
charitable
men
afford
to
beggars
.
Tell out my blood .
My
lord
,
you
have
my
voice
to
’t
.
The
fault’s
Bloody
.
’Tis
necessary
he
should
die
.
Nothing
emboldens
sin
so
much
as
mercy
.
I
am
an
humble
suitor
to
your
virtues
,
For
pity
is
the
virtue
of
the
law
,
And
none
but
tyrants
use
it
cruelly
.
It
pleases
time
and
fortune
to
lie
heavy
Upon
a
friend
of
mine
,
who
in
hot
blood
Hath
stepped
into
the
law
,
which
is
past
depth
To
those
that
without
heed
do
plunge
into
’t
.
He
is
a
man
—
setting
his
fate
aside
—
Of
comely
virtues
.
Nor
did
he
soil
the
fact
with
cowardice
—
An
honor
in
him
which
buys
out
his
fault
—
But
with
a
noble
fury
and
fair
spirit
,
Seeing
his
reputation
touched
to
death
,
He
did
oppose
his
foe
;
And
with
such
sober
and
unnoted
passion
He
did
behave
his
anger
,
ere
’twas
spent
,
As
if
he
had
but
proved
an
argument
.
You
undergo
too
strict
a
paradox
,
Striving
to
make
an
ugly
deed
look
fair
.
Your
words
have
took
such
pains
as
if
they
labored
To
bring
manslaughter
into
form
and
set
quarreling
Upon
the
head
of
valor
—
which
indeed
Is
valor
misbegot
,
and
came
into
the
world
When
sects
and
factions
were
newly
born
.
He’s
truly
valiant
that
can
wisely
suffer
The
worst
that
man
can
breathe
And
make
his
wrongs
his
outsides
,
To
wear
them
like
his
raiment
,
carelessly
,
And
ne’er
prefer
his
injuries
to
his
heart
To
bring
it
into
danger
.
If
wrongs
be
evils
and
enforce
us
kill
,
What
folly
’tis
to
hazard
life
for
ill
!
You
cannot
make
gross
sins
look
clear
.
To
revenge
is
no
valor
,
but
to
bear
.
My
lords
,
then
,
under
favor
,
pardon
me
If
I
speak
like
a
captain
.
Why
do
fond
men
expose
themselves
to
battle
And
not
endure
all
threats
?
Sleep
upon
’t
,
And
let
the
foes
quietly
cut
their
throats
Without
repugnancy
?
If
there
be
Such
valor
in
the
bearing
,
what
make
we
Abroad
?
Why
,
then
,
women
are
more
valiant
That
stay
at
home
,
if
bearing
carry
it
,
And
the
ass
more
captain
than
the
lion
,
the
felon
Loaden
with
irons
wiser
than
the
judge
,
If
wisdom
be
in
suffering
.
O
my
lords
,
As
you
are
great
,
be
pitifully
good
.
Who
cannot
condemn
rashness
in
cold
blood
?
To
kill
,
I
grant
,
is
sin’s
extremest
gust
,
But
in
defense
,
by
mercy
,
’tis
most
just
.
To
be
in
anger
is
impiety
,
But
who
is
man
that
is
not
angry
?
Weigh
but
the
crime
with
this
.
We
are
for
law
.
He
dies
.
Urge
it
no
more
,
On
height
of
our
displeasure
.
Friend
or
brother
,
He
forfeits
his
own
blood
that
spills
another
.
Now
the
gods
keep
you
old
enough
that
you
may
live
Only
in
bone
,
that
none
may
look
on
you
!
—
I’m
worse
than
mad
.
I
have
kept
back
their
foes
While
they
have
told
their
money
and
let
out
Their
coin
upon
large
interest
,
I
myself
Rich
only
in
large
hurts
.
All
those
for
this
?
Is
this
the
balsam
that
the
usuring
Senate
Pours
into
captains’
wounds
?
Banishment
.
It
comes
not
ill
.
I
hate
not
to
be
banished
.
It
is
a
cause
worthy
my
spleen
and
fury
,
That
I
may
strike
at
Athens
.
I’ll
cheer
up
My
discontented
troops
and
lay
for
hearts
.
’Tis
honor
with
most
lands
to
be
at
odds
.
Soldiers
should
brook
as
little
wrongs
as
gods
.
Let
me
look
back
upon
thee
.
O
thou
wall
That
girdles
in
those
wolves
,
dive
in
the
earth
And
fence
not
Athens
!
Matrons
,
turn
incontinent
!
Obedience
fail
in
children
!
Slaves
and
fools
,
Pluck
the
grave
wrinkled
Senate
from
the
bench
And
minister
in
their
steads
!
To
general
filths
Convert
o’
th’
instant
,
green
virginity
!
Do
’t
in
your
parents’
eyes
!
Bankrupts
,
hold
fast
!
Rather
than
render
back
,
out
with
your
knives
And
cut
your
trusters’
throats
!
Bound
servants
,
steal
!
Large-handed
robbers
your
grave
masters
are
,
And
pill
by
law
.
Maid
,
to
thy
master’s
bed
!
Thy
mistress
is
o’
th’
brothel
.
Son
of
sixteen
,
Pluck
the
lined
crutch
from
thy
old
limping
sire
;
With
it
beat
out
his
brains
!
Piety
and
fear
,
Religion
to
the
gods
,
peace
,
justice
,
truth
,
Domestic
awe
,
night
rest
,
and
neighborhood
,
Instruction
,
manners
,
mysteries
,
and
trades
,
Degrees
,
observances
,
customs
,
and
laws
,
Decline
to
your
confounding
contraries
,
And
yet
confusion
live
!
Plagues
incident
to
men
,
Your
potent
and
infectious
fevers
heap
On
Athens
,
ripe
for
stroke
!
Thou
cold
sciatica
,
Cripple
our
senators
,
that
their
limbs
may
halt
As
lamely
as
their
manners
!
Lust
and
liberty
,
Creep
in
the
minds
and
marrows
of
our
youth
,
That
’gainst
the
stream
of
virtue
they
may
strive
And
drown
themselves
in
riot
!
Itches
,
blains
,
Sow
all
th’
Athenian
bosoms
,
and
their
crop
Be
general
leprosy
!
Breath
infect
breath
,
That
their
society
,
as
their
friendship
,
may
Be
merely
poison
!
Nothing
I’ll
bear
from
thee
But
nakedness
,
thou
detestable
town
!
Take
thou
that
too
,
with
multiplying
bans
!
Timon
will
to
the
woods
,
where
he
shall
find
Th’
unkindest
beast
more
kinder
than
mankind
.
The
gods
confound
—
hear
me
,
you
good
gods
all
!
—
Th’
Athenians
both
within
and
out
that
wall
,
And
grant
,
as
Timon
grows
,
his
hate
may
grow
To
the
whole
race
of
mankind
,
high
and
low
!
Amen
.
Good
fellows
all
,
The
latest
of
my
wealth
I’ll
share
amongst
you
.
Wherever
we
shall
meet
,
for
Timon’s
sake
Let’s
yet
be
fellows
.
Let’s
shake
our
heads
and
say
,
As
’twere
a
knell
unto
our
master’s
fortunes
,
We
have
seen
better
days
.
Let
each
take
some
.
Nay
,
put
out
all
your
hands
.
Not
one
word
more
.
Thus
part
we
rich
in
sorrow
,
parting
poor
.
O
,
the
fierce
wretchedness
that
glory
brings
us
!
Who
would
not
wish
to
be
from
wealth
exempt
,
Since
riches
point
to
misery
and
contempt
?
Who
would
be
so
mocked
with
glory
,
or
to
live
But
in
a
dream
of
friendship
,
To
have
his
pomp
and
all
what
state
compounds
But
only
painted
,
like
his
varnished
friends
?
Poor
honest
lord
,
brought
low
by
his
own
heart
,
Undone
by
goodness
!
Strange
unusual
blood
When
man’s
worst
sin
is
he
does
too
much
good
!
Who
then
dares
to
be
half
so
kind
again
?
For
bounty
,
that
makes
gods
,
do
still
mar
men
.
My
dearest
lord
,
blest
to
be
most
accursed
,
Rich
only
to
be
wretched
,
thy
great
fortunes
Are
made
thy
chief
afflictions
.
Alas
,
kind
lord
!
He’s
flung
in
rage
from
this
ingrateful
seat
Of
monstrous
friends
,
Nor
has
he
with
him
to
supply
his
life
,
Or
that
which
can
command
it
.
I’ll
follow
and
inquire
him
out
.
I’ll
ever
serve
his
mind
with
my
best
will
.
Whilst
I
have
gold
,
I’ll
be
his
steward
still
.
I
know
thee
too
,
and
more
than
that
I
know
thee
I
not
desire
to
know
.
Follow
thy
drum
.
With
man’s
blood
paint
the
ground
gules
,
gules
!
Religious
canons
,
civil
laws
are
cruel
.
Then
what
should
war
be
?
This
fell
whore
of
thine
Hath
in
her
more
destruction
than
thy
sword
,
For
all
her
cherubin
look
.
This
is
in
thee
a
nature
but
infected
,
A
poor
unmanly
melancholy
sprung
From
change
of
future
.
Why
this
spade
?
This
place
?
This
slavelike
habit
and
these
looks
of
care
?
Thy
flatterers
yet
wear
silk
,
drink
wine
,
lie
soft
,
Hug
their
diseased
perfumes
,
and
have
forgot
That
ever
Timon
was
.
Shame
not
these
woods
By
putting
on
the
cunning
of
a
carper
.
Be
thou
a
flatterer
now
,
and
seek
to
thrive
By
that
which
has
undone
thee
.
Hinge
thy
knee
,
And
let
his
very
breath
whom
thou
’lt
observe
Blow
off
thy
cap
;
praise
his
most
vicious
strain
,
And
call
it
excellent
.
Thou
wast
told
thus
.
Thou
gav’st
thine
ears
,
like
tapsters
that
bade
welcome
,
To
knaves
and
all
approachers
.
’Tis
most
just
That
thou
turn
rascal
.
Had’st
thou
wealth
again
,
Rascals
should
have
’t
.
Do
not
assume
my
likeness
.
Thee
thither
in
a
whirlwind
.
If
thou
wilt
,
Tell
them
there
I
have
gold
.
Look
,
so
I
have
.
Ay , though it look like thee .
Nor
on
the
beasts
themselves
,
the
birds
and
fishes
;
You
must
eat
men
.
Yet
thanks
I
must
you
con
That
you
are
thieves
professed
,
that
you
work
not
In
holier
shapes
,
for
there
is
boundless
theft
In
limited
professions
.
Rascal
thieves
,
Here’s
gold
.
Go
,
suck
the
subtle
blood
o’
th’
grape
Till
the
high
fever
seethe
your
blood
to
froth
,
And
so
’scape
hanging
.
Trust
not
the
physician
;
His
antidotes
are
poison
,
and
he
slays
More
than
you
rob
.
Take
wealth
and
lives
together
.
Do
,
villainy
,
do
,
since
you
protest
to
do
’t
,
Like
workmen
.
I’ll
example
you
with
thievery
.
The
sun’s
a
thief
and
with
his
great
attraction
Robs
the
vast
sea
.
The
moon’s
an
arrant
thief
,
And
her
pale
fire
she
snatches
from
the
sun
.
The
sea’s
a
thief
,
whose
liquid
surge
resolves
The
moon
into
salt
tears
.
The
earth’s
a
thief
,
That
feeds
and
breeds
by
a
composture
stol’n
From
gen’ral
excrement
.
Each
thing’s
a
thief
.
The
laws
,
your
curb
and
whip
,
in
their
rough
power
Has
unchecked
theft
.
Love
not
yourselves
.
Away
!
Rob
one
another
.
There’s
more
gold
.
Cut
throats
.
All
that
you
meet
are
thieves
.
To
Athens
go
.
Break
open
shops
.
Nothing
can
you
steal
But
thieves
do
lose
it
.
Steal
less
for
this
I
give
you
,
And
gold
confound
you
howsoe’er
!
Amen
.
Look
thee
,
’tis
so
.
Thou
singly
honest
man
,
Here
,
take
.
The
gods
out
of
my
misery
Has
sent
thee
treasure
.
Go
,
live
rich
and
happy
,
But
thus
conditioned
:
thou
shalt
build
from
men
;
Hate
all
,
curse
all
,
show
charity
to
none
,
But
let
the
famished
flesh
slide
from
the
bone
Ere
thou
relieve
the
beggar
;
give
to
dogs
What
thou
deniest
to
men
;
let
prisons
swallow
’em
,
Debts
wither
’em
to
nothing
;
be
men
like
blasted
woods
,
And
may
diseases
lick
up
their
false
bloods
!
And
so
farewell
and
thrive
.
Look
you
,
I
love
you
well
.
I’ll
give
you
gold
.
Rid
me
these
villains
from
your
companies
,
Hang
them
or
stab
them
,
drown
them
in
a
draft
,
Confound
them
by
some
course
,
and
come
to
me
,
I’ll
give
you
gold
enough
.
It
is
vain
that
you
would
speak
with
Timon
,
For
he
is
set
so
only
to
himself
That
nothing
but
himself
which
looks
like
man
Is
friendly
with
him
.
Here
is
his
cave
.
—
Peace
and
content
be
here
!
Lord
Timon
!
Timon
!
Look
out
,
and
speak
to
friends
.
Th’
Athenians
By
two
of
their
most
reverend
Senate
greet
thee
.
Speak
to
them
,
noble
Timon
.
Come
not
to
me
again
,
but
say
to
Athens
,
Timon
hath
made
his
everlasting
mansion
Upon
the
beachèd
verge
of
the
salt
flood
,
Who
once
a
day
with
his
embossèd
froth
The
turbulent
surge
shall
cover
.
Thither
come
And
let
my
gravestone
be
your
oracle
.
Lips
,
let
four
words
go
by
and
language
end
.
What
is
amiss
,
plague
and
infection
mend
.
Graves
only
be
men’s
works
,
and
death
their
gain
.
Sun
,
hide
thy
beams
.
Timon
hath
done
his
reign
.
Stay
,
Roman
brethren
!
—
Gracious
conqueror
,
Victorious
Titus
,
rue
the
tears
I
shed
,
A
mother’s
tears
in
passion
for
her
son
.
And
if
thy
sons
were
ever
dear
to
thee
,
O
think
my
son
to
be
as
dear
to
me
.
Sufficeth
not
that
we
are
brought
to
Rome
To
beautify
thy
triumphs
and
return
Captive
to
thee
and
to
thy
Roman
yoke
,
But
must
my
sons
be
slaughtered
in
the
streets
For
valiant
doings
in
their
country’s
cause
?
O
,
if
to
fight
for
king
and
commonweal
Were
piety
in
thine
,
it
is
in
these
!
Andronicus
,
stain
not
thy
tomb
with
blood
.
Wilt
thou
draw
near
the
nature
of
the
gods
?
Draw
near
them
then
in
being
merciful
.
Sweet
mercy
is
nobility’s
true
badge
.
Thrice-noble
Titus
,
spare
my
first-born
son
.
Oppose
not
Scythia
to
ambitious
Rome
!
Alarbus
goes
to
rest
and
we
survive
To
tremble
under
Titus’
threat’ning
look
.
Then
,
madam
,
stand
resolved
,
but
hope
withal
The
selfsame
gods
that
armed
the
Queen
of
Troy
With
opportunity
of
sharp
revenge
Upon
the
Thracian
tyrant
in
his
tent
May
favor
Tamora
the
Queen
of
Goths
(
When
Goths
were
Goths
,
and
Tamora
was
queen
)
To
quit
the
bloody
wrongs
upon
her
foes
.
Not
so
,
my
lord
;
the
gods
of
Rome
forfend
I
should
be
author
to
dishonor
you
.
But
on
mine
honor
dare
I
undertake
For
good
Lord
Titus’
innocence
in
all
,
Whose
fury
not
dissembled
speaks
his
griefs
.
Then
at
my
suit
look
graciously
on
him
.
Lose
not
so
noble
a
friend
on
vain
suppose
,
Nor
with
sour
looks
afflict
his
gentle
heart
.
My
lord
,
be
ruled
by
me
;
be
won
at
last
.
Dissemble
all
your
griefs
and
discontents
.
You
are
but
newly
planted
in
your
throne
.
Lest
,
then
,
the
people
,
and
patricians
too
,
Upon
a
just
survey
take
Titus’
part
And
so
supplant
you
for
ingratitude
,
Which
Rome
reputes
to
be
a
heinous
sin
.
Yield
at
entreats
,
and
then
let
me
alone
.
I’ll
find
a
day
to
massacre
them
all
And
raze
their
faction
and
their
family
,
The
cruel
father
and
his
traitorous
sons
,
To
whom
I
sued
for
my
dear
son’s
life
,
And
make
them
know
what
’tis
to
let
a
queen
Kneel
in
the
streets
and
beg
for
grace
in
vain
.
Come
,
come
,
sweet
emperor
.
—
Come
,
Andronicus
.
—
Take
up
this
good
old
man
,
and
cheer
the
heart
That
dies
in
tempest
of
thy
angry
frown
.
I
thank
your
Majesty
and
her
,
my
lord
.
These
words
,
these
looks
,
infuse
new
life
in
me
.
Nay
,
nay
,
sweet
emperor
,
we
must
all
be
friends
.
The
tribune
and
his
nephews
kneel
for
grace
.
I
will
not
be
denied
.
Sweetheart
,
look
back
.
Now
climbeth
Tamora
Olympus’
top
,
Safe
out
of
Fortune’s
shot
,
and
sits
aloft
,
Secure
of
thunder’s
crack
or
lightning
flash
,
Advanced
above
pale
Envy’s
threat’ning
reach
.
As
when
the
golden
sun
salutes
the
morn
And
,
having
gilt
the
ocean
with
his
beams
,
Gallops
the
zodiac
in
his
glistering
coach
And
overlooks
the
highest-peering
hills
,
So
Tamora
.
Upon
her
wit
doth
earthly
honor
wait
,
And
virtue
stoops
and
trembles
at
her
frown
.
Then
,
Aaron
,
arm
thy
heart
and
fit
thy
thoughts
To
mount
aloft
with
thy
imperial
mistress
,
And
mount
her
pitch
whom
thou
in
triumph
long
Hast
prisoner
held
,
fettered
in
amorous
chains
And
faster
bound
to
Aaron’s
charming
eyes
Than
is
Prometheus
tied
to
Caucasus
.
Away
with
slavish
weeds
and
servile
thoughts
!
I
will
be
bright
,
and
shine
in
pearl
and
gold
To
wait
upon
this
new-made
emperess
.
To
wait
,
said
I
?
To
wanton
with
this
queen
,
This
goddess
,
this
Semiramis
,
this
nymph
,
This
siren
that
will
charm
Rome’s
Saturnine
And
see
his
shipwrack
and
his
commonweal’s
.
Holla
!
What
storm
is
this
?
Away
,
I
say
!
Now
by
the
gods
that
warlike
Goths
adore
,
This
petty
brabble
will
undo
us
all
.
Why
,
lords
,
and
think
you
not
how
dangerous
It
is
to
jet
upon
a
prince’s
right
?
What
,
is
Lavinia
then
become
so
loose
Or
Bassianus
so
degenerate
That
for
her
love
such
quarrels
may
be
broached
Without
controlment
,
justice
,
or
revenge
?
Young
lords
,
beware
!
And
should
the
Empress
know
This
discord’s
ground
,
the
music
would
not
please
.
Then
why
should
he
despair
that
knows
to
court
it
With
words
,
fair
looks
,
and
liberality
?
What
,
hast
not
thou
full
often
struck
a
doe
And
borne
her
cleanly
by
the
keeper’s
nose
?
My
lovely
Aaron
,
wherefore
look’st
thou
sad
,
When
everything
doth
make
a
gleeful
boast
?
The
birds
chant
melody
on
every
bush
,
The
snakes
lies
rollèd
in
the
cheerful
sun
,
The
green
leaves
quiver
with
the
cooling
wind
And
make
a
checkered
shadow
on
the
ground
.
Under
their
sweet
shade
,
Aaron
,
let
us
sit
,
And
whilst
the
babbling
echo
mocks
the
hounds
,
Replying
shrilly
to
the
well-tuned
horns
,
As
if
a
double
hunt
were
heard
at
once
,
Let
us
sit
down
and
mark
their
yellowing
noise
.
And
after
conflict
such
as
was
supposed
The
wand’ring
prince
and
Dido
once
enjoyed
When
with
a
happy
storm
they
were
surprised
,
And
curtained
with
a
counsel-keeping
cave
,
We
may
,
each
wreathèd
in
the
other’s
arms
,
Our
pastimes
done
,
possess
a
golden
slumber
,
Whiles
hounds
and
horns
and
sweet
melodious
birds
Be
unto
us
as
is
a
nurse’s
song
Of
lullaby
to
bring
her
babe
asleep
.
Madam
,
though
Venus
govern
your
desires
,
Saturn
is
dominator
over
mine
.
What
signifies
my
deadly
standing
eye
,
My
silence
,
and
my
cloudy
melancholy
,
My
fleece
of
woolly
hair
that
now
uncurls
Even
as
an
adder
when
she
doth
unroll
To
do
some
fatal
execution
?
No
,
madam
,
these
are
no
venereal
signs
.
Vengeance
is
in
my
heart
,
death
in
my
hand
,
Blood
and
revenge
are
hammering
in
my
head
.
Hark
,
Tamora
,
the
empress
of
my
soul
,
Which
never
hopes
more
heaven
than
rests
in
thee
,
This
is
the
day
of
doom
for
Bassianus
.
His
Philomel
must
lose
her
tongue
today
,
Thy
sons
make
pillage
of
her
chastity
And
wash
their
hands
in
Bassianus’
blood
.
Seest
thou
this
letter
?
Take
it
up
,
I
pray
thee
,
And
give
the
King
this
fatal-plotted
scroll
.
Now
,
question
me
no
more
.
We
are
espied
.
Here
comes
a
parcel
of
our
hopeful
booty
,
Which
dreads
not
yet
their
lives’
destruction
.
How
now
,
dear
sovereign
and
our
gracious
mother
,
Why
doth
your
Highness
look
so
pale
and
wan
?
Have
I
not
reason
,
think
you
,
to
look
pale
?
These
two
have
ticed
me
hither
to
this
place
,
A
barren
,
detested
vale
you
see
it
is
;
The
trees
,
though
summer
,
yet
forlorn
and
lean
,
Overcome
with
moss
and
baleful
mistletoe
.
Here
never
shines
the
sun
,
here
nothing
breeds
,
Unless
the
nightly
owl
or
fatal
raven
.
And
when
they
showed
me
this
abhorrèd
pit
,
They
told
me
,
here
at
dead
time
of
the
night
A
thousand
fiends
,
a
thousand
hissing
snakes
,
Ten
thousand
swelling
toads
,
as
many
urchins
,
Would
make
such
fearful
and
confusèd
cries
As
any
mortal
body
hearing
it
Should
straight
fall
mad
,
or
else
die
suddenly
.
No
sooner
had
they
told
this
hellish
tale
But
straight
they
told
me
they
would
bind
me
here
Unto
the
body
of
a
dismal
yew
And
leave
me
to
this
miserable
death
.
And
then
they
called
me
foul
adulteress
,
Lascivious
Goth
,
and
all
the
bitterest
terms
That
ever
ear
did
hear
to
such
effect
.
And
had
you
not
by
wondrous
fortune
come
,
This
vengeance
on
me
had
they
executed
.
Revenge
it
as
you
love
your
mother’s
life
,
Or
be
you
not
henceforth
called
my
children
.
What
,
art
thou
fallen
?
What
subtle
hole
is
this
,
Whose
mouth
is
covered
with
rude-growing
briers
Upon
whose
leaves
are
drops
of
new-shed
blood
As
fresh
as
morning
dew
distilled
on
flowers
?
A
very
fatal
place
it
seems
to
me
.
Speak
,
brother
!
Hast
thou
hurt
thee
with
the
fall
?
Why
dost
not
comfort
me
and
help
me
out
From
this
unhallowed
and
bloodstainèd
hole
?
To
prove
thou
hast
a
true-divining
heart
,
Aaron
and
thou
look
down
into
this
den
And
see
a
fearful
sight
of
blood
and
death
.
Lord
Bassianus
lies
berayed
in
blood
,
All
on
a
heap
,
like
to
a
slaughtered
lamb
,
In
this
detested
,
dark
,
blood-drinking
pit
.
Upon
his
bloody
finger
he
doth
wear
A
precious
ring
that
lightens
all
this
hole
,
Which
like
a
taper
in
some
monument
Doth
shine
upon
the
dead
man’s
earthy
cheeks
And
shows
the
ragged
entrails
of
this
pit
.
So
pale
did
shine
the
moon
on
Pyramus
When
he
by
night
lay
bathed
in
maiden
blood
.
O
,
brother
,
help
me
with
thy
fainting
hand
—
If
fear
hath
made
thee
faint
as
me
it
hath
—
Out
of
this
fell
devouring
receptacle
,
As
hateful
as
Cocytus’
misty
mouth
.
Thy
hand
once
more
.
I
will
not
loose
again
Till
thou
art
here
aloft
or
I
below
.
Thou
canst
not
come
to
me
.
I
come
to
thee
.
An
if
we
miss
to
meet
him
handsomely
,
Sweet
huntsman
—
Bassianus
’tis
we
mean
—
Do
thou
so
much
as
dig
the
grave
for
him
;
Thou
know’st
our
meaning
.
Look
for
thy
reward
Among
the
nettles
at
the
elder
tree
Which
overshades
the
mouth
of
that
same
pit
Where
we
decreed
to
bury
Bassianus
.
Do
this
,
and
purchase
us
thy
lasting
friends
.
O
Tamora
,
was
ever
heard
the
like
?
This
is
the
pit
,
and
this
the
elder
tree
.
—
Look
,
sirs
,
if
you
can
find
the
huntsman
out
That
should
have
murdered
Bassianus
here
.
Two
of
thy
whelps
,
fell
curs
of
bloody
kind
,
Have
here
bereft
my
brother
of
his
life
.
—
Sirs
,
drag
them
from
the
pit
unto
the
prison
.
There
let
them
bide
until
we
have
devised
Some
never-heard-of
torturing
pain
for
them
.
Who
is
this
?
My
niece
,
that
flies
away
so
fast
?
—
Cousin
,
a
word
.
Where
is
your
husband
?
If
I
do
dream
,
would
all
my
wealth
would
wake
me
.
If
I
do
wake
,
some
planet
strike
me
down
That
I
may
slumber
an
eternal
sleep
.
Speak
,
gentle
niece
.
What
stern
ungentle
hands
Hath
lopped
and
hewed
and
made
thy
body
bare
Of
her
two
branches
,
those
sweet
ornaments
Whose
circling
shadows
kings
have
sought
to
sleep
in
,
And
might
not
gain
so
great
a
happiness
As
half
thy
love
?
Why
dost
not
speak
to
me
?
Alas
,
a
crimson
river
of
warm
blood
,
Like
to
a
bubbling
fountain
stirred
with
wind
,
Doth
rise
and
fall
between
thy
rosèd
lips
,
Coming
and
going
with
thy
honey
breath
.
But
sure
some
Tereus
hath
deflowered
thee
,
And
lest
thou
shouldst
detect
him
cut
thy
tongue
.
Ah
,
now
thou
turn’st
away
thy
face
for
shame
,
And
notwithstanding
all
this
loss
of
blood
,
As
from
a
conduit
with
three
issuing
spouts
,
Yet
do
thy
cheeks
look
red
as
Titan’s
face
,
Blushing
to
be
encountered
with
a
cloud
.
Shall
I
speak
for
thee
,
shall
I
say
’tis
so
?
O
,
that
I
knew
thy
heart
,
and
knew
the
beast
,
That
I
might
rail
at
him
to
ease
my
mind
.
Sorrow
concealèd
,
like
an
oven
stopped
,
Doth
burn
the
heart
to
cinders
where
it
is
.
Fair
Philomela
,
why
she
but
lost
her
tongue
,
And
in
a
tedious
sampler
sewed
her
mind
;
But
,
lovely
niece
,
that
mean
is
cut
from
thee
.
A
craftier
Tereus
,
cousin
,
hast
thou
met
,
And
he
hath
cut
those
pretty
fingers
off
That
could
have
better
sewed
than
Philomel
.
O
,
had
the
monster
seen
those
lily
hands
Tremble
like
aspen
leaves
upon
a
lute
And
make
the
silken
strings
delight
to
kiss
them
,
He
would
not
then
have
touched
them
for
his
life
.
Or
had
he
heard
the
heavenly
harmony
Which
that
sweet
tongue
hath
made
,
He
would
have
dropped
his
knife
and
fell
asleep
,
As
Cerberus
at
the
Thracian
poet’s
feet
.
Come
,
let
us
go
and
make
thy
father
blind
,
For
such
a
sight
will
blind
a
father’s
eye
.
One
hour’s
storm
will
drown
the
fragrant
meads
;
What
will
whole
months
of
tears
thy
father’s
eyes
?
Do
not
draw
back
,
for
we
will
mourn
with
thee
.
O
,
could
our
mourning
ease
thy
misery
!
Hear
me
,
grave
fathers
;
noble
tribunes
,
stay
.
For
pity
of
mine
age
,
whose
youth
was
spent
In
dangerous
wars
whilst
you
securely
slept
;
For
all
my
blood
in
Rome’s
great
quarrel
shed
,
For
all
the
frosty
nights
that
I
have
watched
,
And
for
these
bitter
tears
which
now
you
see
,
Filling
the
agèd
wrinkles
in
my
cheeks
,
Be
pitiful
to
my
condemnèd
sons
,
Whose
souls
is
not
corrupted
as
’tis
thought
.
For
two-and-twenty
sons
I
never
wept
Because
they
died
in
honor’s
lofty
bed
.
For
these
,
tribunes
,
in
the
dust
I
write
My
heart’s
deep
languor
and
my
soul’s
sad
tears
.
Let
my
tears
stanch
the
earth’s
dry
appetite
.
My
sons’
sweet
blood
will
make
it
shame
and
blush
.
O
Earth
earth
,
I
will
befriend
thee
more
with
rain
That
shall
distil
from
these
two
ancient
ruins
Than
youthful
April
shall
with
all
his
showers
.
In
summer’s
drought
I’ll
drop
upon
thee
still
;
In
winter
with
warm
tears
I’ll
melt
the
snow
And
keep
eternal
springtime
on
thy
face
,
So
thou
refuse
to
drink
my
dear
sons’
blood
.
O
reverend
tribunes
,
O
gentle
agèd
men
,
Unbind
my
sons
,
reverse
the
doom
of
death
,
And
let
me
say
,
that
never
wept
before
,
My
tears
are
now
prevailing
orators
.
Faint-hearted
boy
,
arise
and
look
upon
her
.
—
Speak
,
Lavinia
.
What
accursèd
hand
Hath
made
thee
handless
in
thy
father’s
sight
?
What
fool
hath
added
water
to
the
sea
Or
brought
a
faggot
to
bright-burning
Troy
?
My
grief
was
at
the
height
before
thou
cam’st
,
And
now
like
Nilus
it
disdaineth
bounds
.
—
Give
me
a
sword
.
I’ll
chop
off
my
hands
too
,
For
they
have
fought
for
Rome
and
all
in
vain
;
And
they
have
nursed
this
woe
in
feeding
life
;
In
bootless
prayer
have
they
been
held
up
,
And
they
have
served
me
to
effectless
use
.
Now
all
the
service
I
require
of
them
Is
that
the
one
will
help
to
cut
the
other
.
—
’Tis
well
,
Lavinia
,
that
thou
hast
no
hands
,
For
hands
to
do
Rome
service
is
but
vain
.
It
was
my
dear
,
and
he
that
wounded
her
Hath
hurt
me
more
than
had
he
killed
me
dead
.
For
now
I
stand
as
one
upon
a
rock
,
Environed
with
a
wilderness
of
sea
,
Who
marks
the
waxing
tide
grow
wave
by
wave
,
Expecting
ever
when
some
envious
surge
Will
in
his
brinish
bowels
swallow
him
.
This
way
to
death
my
wretched
sons
are
gone
;
Here
stands
my
other
son
a
banished
man
,
And
here
my
brother
,
weeping
at
my
woes
.
But
that
which
gives
my
soul
the
greatest
spurn
Is
dear
Lavinia
,
dearer
than
my
soul
.
Had
I
but
seen
thy
picture
in
this
plight
It
would
have
madded
me
.
What
shall
I
do
,
Now
I
behold
thy
lively
body
so
?
Thou
hast
no
hands
to
wipe
away
thy
tears
,
Nor
tongue
to
tell
me
who
hath
martyred
thee
.
Thy
husband
he
is
dead
,
and
for
his
death
Thy
brothers
are
condemned
,
and
dead
by
this
.
—
Look
,
Marcus
!
—
Ah
,
son
Lucius
,
look
on
her
!
When
I
did
name
her
brothers
,
then
fresh
tears
Stood
on
her
cheeks
as
doth
the
honeydew
Upon
a
gathered
lily
almost
withered
.
If
they
did
kill
thy
husband
,
then
be
joyful
,
Because
the
law
hath
ta’en
revenge
on
them
.
—
No
,
no
,
they
would
not
do
so
foul
a
deed
.
Witness
the
sorrow
that
their
sister
makes
.
—
Gentle
Lavinia
,
let
me
kiss
thy
lips
,
Or
make
some
sign
how
I
may
do
thee
ease
.
Shall
thy
good
uncle
and
thy
brother
Lucius
And
thou
and
I
sit
round
about
some
fountain
,
Looking
all
downwards
to
behold
our
cheeks
,
How
they
are
stained
like
meadows
yet
not
dry
With
miry
slime
left
on
them
by
a
flood
?
And
in
the
fountain
shall
we
gaze
so
long
Till
the
fresh
taste
be
taken
from
that
clearness
And
made
a
brine
pit
with
our
bitter
tears
?
Or
shall
we
cut
away
our
hands
like
thine
?
Or
shall
we
bite
our
tongues
and
in
dumb
shows
Pass
the
remainder
of
our
hateful
days
?
What
shall
we
do
?
Let
us
that
have
our
tongues
Plot
some
device
of
further
misery
To
make
us
wondered
at
in
time
to
come
.
Stay
,
father
,
for
that
noble
hand
of
thine
,
That
hath
thrown
down
so
many
enemies
,
Shall
not
be
sent
.
My
hand
will
serve
the
turn
.
My
youth
can
better
spare
my
blood
than
you
,
And
therefore
mine
shall
save
my
brothers’
lives
.
Which
of
your
hands
hath
not
defended
Rome
And
reared
aloft
the
bloody
battleax
,
Writing
destruction
on
the
enemy’s
castle
?
O
,
none
of
both
but
are
of
high
desert
.
My
hand
hath
been
but
idle
;
let
it
serve
To
ransom
my
two
nephews
from
their
death
.
Then
have
I
kept
it
to
a
worthy
end
.
I
go
,
Andronicus
,
and
for
thy
hand
Look
by
and
by
to
have
thy
sons
with
thee
.
Their
heads
,
I
mean
.
O
,
how
this
villainy
Doth
fat
me
with
the
very
thoughts
of
it
!
Let
fools
do
good
and
fair
men
call
for
grace
;
Aaron
will
have
his
soul
black
like
his
face
.
Now
farewell
,
flatt’ry
;
die
,
Andronicus
.
Thou
dost
not
slumber
.
See
thy
two
sons’
heads
,
Thy
warlike
hand
,
thy
mangled
daughter
here
,
Thy
other
banished
son
with
this
dear
sight
Struck
pale
and
bloodless
;
and
thy
brother
,
I
,
Even
like
a
stony
image
cold
and
numb
.
Ah
,
now
no
more
will
I
control
thy
griefs
.
Rent
off
thy
silver
hair
,
thy
other
hand
,
Gnawing
with
thy
teeth
,
and
be
this
dismal
sight
The
closing
up
of
our
most
wretched
eyes
.
Now
is
a
time
to
storm
.
Why
art
thou
still
?
So
,
so
.
Now
sit
,
and
look
you
eat
no
more
Than
will
preserve
just
so
much
strength
in
us
As
will
revenge
these
bitter
woes
of
ours
.
Marcus
,
unknit
that
sorrow-wreathen
knot
.
Thy
niece
and
I
,
poor
creatures
,
want
our
hands
And
cannot
passionate
our
tenfold
grief
With
folded
arms
.
This
poor
right
hand
of
mine
Is
left
to
tyrannize
upon
my
breast
,
Who
,
when
my
heart
,
all
mad
with
misery
,
Beats
in
this
hollow
prison
of
my
flesh
,
Then
thus
I
thump
it
down
.
—
Thou
map
of
woe
,
that
thus
dost
talk
in
signs
,
When
thy
poor
heart
beats
with
outrageous
beating
,
Thou
canst
not
strike
it
thus
to
make
it
still
.
Wound
it
with
sighing
,
girl
,
kill
it
with
groans
;
Or
get
some
little
knife
between
thy
teeth
And
just
against
thy
heart
make
thou
a
hole
,
That
all
the
tears
that
thy
poor
eyes
let
fall
May
run
into
that
sink
and
,
soaking
in
,
Drown
the
lamenting
fool
in
sea-salt
tears
.
Lavinia
,
wert
thou
thus
surprised
,
sweet
girl
,
Ravished
and
wronged
as
Philomela
was
,
Forced
in
the
ruthless
,
vast
,
and
gloomy
woods
?
See
,
see
!
Ay
,
such
a
place
there
is
where
we
did
hunt
—
O
,
had
we
never
,
never
hunted
there
!
—
Patterned
by
that
the
poet
here
describes
,
By
nature
made
for
murders
and
for
rapes
.
Sit
down
,
sweet
niece
.
—
Brother
,
sit
down
by
me
.
Apollo
,
Pallas
,
Jove
,
or
Mercury
Inspire
me
,
that
I
may
this
treason
find
.
—
My
lord
,
look
here
.
—
Look
here
,
Lavinia
.
This
sandy
plot
is
plain
;
guide
,
if
thou
canst
,
This
after
me
.
I
have
writ
my
name
Without
the
help
of
any
hand
at
all
.
Cursed
be
that
heart
that
forced
us
to
this
shift
!
Write
thou
,
good
niece
,
and
here
display
at
last
What
God
will
have
discovered
for
revenge
.
Heaven
guide
thy
pen
to
print
thy
sorrows
plain
,
That
we
may
know
the
traitors
and
the
truth
.
O
,
do
you
read
,
my
lord
,
what
she
hath
writ
?
What
,
what
!
The
lustful
sons
of
Tamora
Performers
of
this
heinous
,
bloody
deed
?
O
,
calm
thee
,
gentle
lord
,
although
I
know
There
is
enough
written
upon
this
earth
To
stir
a
mutiny
in
the
mildest
thoughts
And
arm
the
minds
of
infants
to
exclaims
.
My
lord
,
kneel
down
with
me
.
—
Lavinia
,
kneel
.
—
And
kneel
,
sweet
boy
,
the
Roman
Hector’s
hope
,
And
swear
with
me
—
as
,
with
the
woeful
fere
And
father
of
that
chaste
dishonored
dame
,
Lord
Junius
Brutus
swore
for
Lucrece’
rape
—
That
we
will
prosecute
by
good
advice
Mortal
revenge
upon
these
traitorous
Goths
,
And
see
their
blood
or
die
with
this
reproach
.
No
,
boy
,
not
so
.
I’ll
teach
thee
another
course
.
—
Lavinia
,
come
.
—
Marcus
,
look
to
my
house
.
Lucius
and
I’ll
go
brave
it
at
the
court
;
Ay
,
marry
,
will
we
,
sir
,
and
we’ll
be
waited
on
.
That
you
are
both
deciphered
,
that’s
the
news
,
For
villains
marked
with
rape
.
—
May
it
please
you
,
My
grandsire
,
well
advised
,
hath
sent
by
me
The
goodliest
weapons
of
his
armory
To
gratify
your
honorable
youth
,
The
hope
of
Rome
;
for
so
he
bid
me
say
,
And
so
I
do
,
and
with
his
gifts
present
Your
Lordships
,
that
,
whenever
you
have
need
,
You
may
be
armèd
and
appointed
well
,
And
so
I
leave
you
both
—
like
bloody
villains
.
What
,
must
it
,
nurse
?
Then
let
no
man
but
I
Do
execution
on
my
flesh
and
blood
.
Sooner
this
sword
shall
plow
thy
bowels
up
!
Stay
,
murderous
villains
,
will
you
kill
your
brother
?
Now
,
by
the
burning
tapers
of
the
sky
That
shone
so
brightly
when
this
boy
was
got
,
He
dies
upon
my
scimitar’s
sharp
point
That
touches
this
my
firstborn
son
and
heir
.
I
tell
you
,
younglings
,
not
Enceladus
With
all
his
threat’ning
band
of
Typhon’s
brood
,
Nor
great
Alcides
,
nor
the
god
of
war
Shall
seize
this
prey
out
of
his
father’s
hands
.
What
,
what
,
you
sanguine
,
shallow-hearted
boys
,
You
white-limed
walls
,
you
alehouse
painted
signs
!
Coal-black
black
is
better
than
another
hue
In
that
it
scorns
to
bear
another
hue
;
For
all
the
water
in
the
ocean
Can
never
turn
the
swan’s
black
legs
to
white
,
Although
she
lave
them
hourly
in
the
flood
.
Tell
the
Empress
from
me
,
I
am
of
age
To
keep
mine
own
,
excuse
it
how
she
can
.
Why
,
there’s
the
privilege
your
beauty
bears
.
Fie
,
treacherous
hue
,
that
will
betray
with
blushing
The
close
enacts
and
counsels
of
thy
heart
.
Here’s
a
young
lad
framed
of
another
leer
.
Look
how
the
black
slave
smiles
upon
the
father
,
As
who
should
say
Old
lad
,
I
am
thine
own
.
He
is
your
brother
,
lords
,
sensibly
fed
Of
that
self
blood
that
first
gave
life
to
you
,
And
from
that
womb
where
you
imprisoned
were
He
is
enfranchisèd
and
come
to
light
.
Nay
,
he
is
your
brother
by
the
surer
side
,
Although
my
seal
be
stampèd
in
his
face
.
Come
,
Marcus
,
come
.
Kinsmen
,
this
is
the
way
.
—
Sir
boy
,
let
me
see
your
archery
.
Look
you
draw
home
enough
and
’tis
there
straight
.
—
Terras
Astraea
reliquit
.
Be
you
remembered
,
Marcus
,
she’s
gone
,
she’s
fled
.
—
Sirs
,
take
you
to
your
tools
.
You
,
cousins
,
shall
Go
sound
the
ocean
and
cast
your
nets
;
Happily
you
may
catch
her
in
the
sea
;
Yet
there’s
as
little
justice
as
at
land
.
No
;
Publius
and
Sempronius
,
you
must
do
it
.
’Tis
you
must
dig
with
mattock
and
with
spade
,
And
pierce
the
inmost
center
of
the
Earth
earth
.
Then
,
when
you
come
to
Pluto’s
region
,
I
pray
you
,
deliver
him
this
petition
.
Tell
him
it
is
for
justice
and
for
aid
,
And
that
it
comes
from
old
Andronicus
,
Shaken
with
sorrows
in
ungrateful
Rome
.
Ah
,
Rome
!
Well
,
well
,
I
made
thee
miserable
What
time
I
threw
the
people’s
suffrages
On
him
that
thus
doth
tyrannize
o’er
me
.
Go
,
get
you
gone
,
and
pray
be
careful
all
,
And
leave
you
not
a
man-of-war
unsearched
.
This
wicked
emperor
may
have
shipped
her
hence
,
And
,
kinsmen
,
then
we
may
go
pipe
for
justice
.
He
doth
me
wrong
to
feed
me
with
delays
.
I’ll
dive
into
the
burning
lake
below
And
pull
her
out
of
Acheron
by
the
heels
.
Marcus
,
we
are
but
shrubs
,
no
cedars
we
,
No
big-boned
men
framed
of
the
Cyclops’
size
,
But
metal
,
Marcus
,
steel
to
the
very
back
,
Yet
wrung
with
wrongs
more
than
our
backs
can
bear
;
And
sith
there’s
no
justice
in
Earth
earth
nor
hell
,
We
will
solicit
heaven
and
move
the
gods
To
send
down
Justice
for
to
wreak
our
wrongs
.
Come
,
to
this
gear
.
You
are
a
good
archer
,
Marcus
.
Ad
Jovem
,
that’s
for
you
;
—
here
,
Ad
Apollinem
;
—
Ad
Martem
,
that’s
for
myself
;
—
Here
,
boy
,
to
Pallas
;
—
here
,
to
Mercury
;
—
To
Saturn
,
Caius
—
not
to
Saturnine
!
You
were
as
good
to
shoot
against
the
wind
.
To
it
,
boy
!
—
Marcus
,
loose
when
I
bid
.
Of
my
word
,
I
have
written
to
effect
;
There’s
not
a
god
left
unsolicited
.
Then
here
is
a
supplication
for
you
,
and
when
you
come
to
him
,
at
the
first
approach
you
must
kneel
,
then
kiss
his
foot
,
then
deliver
up
your
pigeons
,
and
then
look
for
your
reward
.
I’ll
be
at
hand
,
sir
.
See
you
do
it
bravely
.
My
gracious
lord
,
my
lovely
Saturnine
,
Lord
of
my
life
,
commander
of
my
thoughts
,
Calm
thee
,
and
bear
the
faults
of
Titus’
age
,
Th’
effects
of
sorrow
for
his
valiant
sons
,
Whose
loss
hath
pierced
him
deep
and
scarred
his
heart
,
And
rather
comfort
his
distressèd
plight
Than
prosecute
the
meanest
or
the
best
For
these
contempts
.
Why
,
thus
it
shall
become
High-witted
Tamora
to
gloze
with
all
.
But
,
Titus
,
I
have
touched
thee
to
the
quick
.
Thy
lifeblood
out
,
if
Aaron
now
be
wise
,
Then
is
all
safe
,
the
anchor
in
the
port
.
How
now
,
good
fellow
,
wouldst
thou
speak
with
us
?
Renownèd
Lucius
,
from
our
troops
I
strayed
To
gaze
upon
a
ruinous
monastery
,
And
as
I
earnestly
did
fix
mine
eye
Upon
the
wasted
building
,
suddenly
I
heard
a
child
cry
underneath
a
wall
.
I
made
unto
the
noise
,
when
soon
I
heard
The
crying
babe
controlled
with
this
discourse
:
Peace
,
tawny
slave
,
half
me
and
half
thy
dame
!
Did
not
thy
hue
bewray
whose
brat
thou
art
,
Had
nature
lent
thee
but
thy
mother’s
look
,
Villain
,
thou
mightst
have
been
an
emperor
.
But
where
the
bull
and
cow
are
both
milk
white
,
They
never
do
beget
a
coal-black
calf
.
Peace
,
villain
,
peace
!
—
even
thus
he
rates
the
babe
—
For
I
must
bear
thee
to
a
trusty
Goth
Who
,
when
he
knows
thou
art
the
Empress’
babe
,
Will
hold
thee
dearly
for
thy
mother’s
sake
.
With
this
,
my
weapon
drawn
,
I
rushed
upon
him
,
Surprised
him
suddenly
,
and
brought
him
hither
To
use
as
you
think
needful
of
the
man
.
Touch
not
the
boy
.
He
is
of
royal
blood
.
Indeed
,
I
was
their
tutor
to
instruct
them
.
That
codding
spirit
had
they
from
their
mother
,
As
sure
a
card
as
ever
won
the
set
;
That
bloody
mind
I
think
they
learned
of
me
,
As
true
a
dog
as
ever
fought
at
head
.
Well
,
let
my
deeds
be
witness
of
my
worth
.
I
trained
thy
brethren
to
that
guileful
hole
Where
the
dead
corpse
of
Bassianus
lay
.
I
wrote
the
letter
that
thy
father
found
,
And
hid
the
gold
within
that
letter
mentioned
,
Confederate
with
the
Queen
and
her
two
sons
.
And
what
not
done
that
thou
hast
cause
to
rue
,
Wherein
I
had
no
stroke
of
mischief
in
it
?
I
played
the
cheater
for
thy
father’s
hand
,
And
,
when
I
had
it
,
drew
myself
apart
And
almost
broke
my
heart
with
extreme
laughter
.
I
pried
me
through
the
crevice
of
a
wall
When
,
for
his
hand
,
he
had
his
two
sons’
heads
,
Beheld
his
tears
,
and
laughed
so
heartily
That
both
mine
eyes
were
rainy
like
to
his
.
And
when
I
told
the
Empress
of
this
sport
,
She
sounded
almost
at
my
pleasing
tale
,
And
for
my
tidings
gave
me
twenty
kisses
.
Who
doth
molest
my
contemplation
?
Is
it
your
trick
to
make
me
ope
the
door
,
That
so
my
sad
decrees
may
fly
away
And
all
my
study
be
to
no
effect
?
You
are
deceived
,
for
what
I
mean
to
do
,
See
here
,
in
bloody
lines
I
have
set
down
,
And
what
is
written
shall
be
executed
.
Know
,
thou
sad
man
,
I
am
not
Tamora
.
She
is
thy
enemy
,
and
I
thy
friend
.
I
am
Revenge
,
sent
from
th’
infernal
kingdom
To
ease
the
gnawing
vulture
of
thy
mind
By
working
wreakful
vengeance
on
thy
foes
.
Come
down
and
welcome
me
to
this
world’s
light
.
Confer
with
me
of
murder
and
of
death
.
There’s
not
a
hollow
cave
or
lurking-place
,
No
vast
obscurity
or
misty
vale
Where
bloody
murder
or
detested
rape
Can
couch
for
fear
but
I
will
find
them
out
,
And
in
their
ears
tell
them
my
dreadful
name
,
Revenge
,
which
makes
the
foul
offender
quake
.
Look
round
about
the
wicked
streets
of
Rome
,
And
when
thou
findst
a
man
that’s
like
thyself
,
Good
Murder
,
stab
him
;
he’s
a
murderer
.
Go
thou
with
him
,
and
when
it
is
thy
hap
To
find
another
that
is
like
to
thee
,
Good
Rapine
,
stab
him
;
he
is
a
ravisher
.
Go
thou
with
them
;
and
in
the
Emperor’s
court
There
is
a
queen
attended
by
a
Moor
.
Well
shalt
thou
know
her
by
thine
own
proportion
,
For
up
and
down
she
doth
resemble
thee
.
I
pray
thee
,
do
on
them
some
violent
death
.
They
have
been
violent
to
me
and
mine
.
And
therefore
do
we
what
we
are
commanded
.
—
Stop
close
their
mouths
;
let
them
not
speak
a
word
.
Is
he
sure
bound
?
Look
that
you
bind
them
fast
.
Come
,
come
,
Lavinia
.
Look
,
thy
foes
are
bound
.
—
Sirs
,
stop
their
mouths
.
Let
them
not
speak
to
me
,
But
let
them
hear
what
fearful
words
I
utter
.
—
O
villains
,
Chiron
and
Demetrius
!
Here
stands
the
spring
whom
you
have
stained
with
mud
,
This
goodly
summer
with
your
winter
mixed
.
You
killed
her
husband
,
and
for
that
vile
fault
Two
of
her
brothers
were
condemned
to
death
,
My
hand
cut
off
and
made
a
merry
jest
,
Both
her
sweet
hands
,
her
tongue
,
and
that
more
dear
Than
hands
or
tongue
,
her
spotless
chastity
,
Inhuman
traitors
,
you
constrained
and
forced
.
What
would
you
say
if
I
should
let
you
speak
?
Villains
,
for
shame
you
could
not
beg
for
grace
.
Hark
,
wretches
,
how
I
mean
to
martyr
you
.
This
one
hand
yet
is
left
to
cut
your
throats
,
Whiles
that
Lavinia
’tween
her
stumps
doth
hold
The
basin
that
receives
your
guilty
blood
.
You
know
your
mother
means
to
feast
with
me
,
And
calls
herself
Revenge
,
and
thinks
me
mad
.
Hark
,
villains
,
I
will
grind
your
bones
to
dust
,
And
with
your
blood
and
it
I’ll
make
a
paste
,
And
of
the
paste
a
coffin
I
will
rear
,
And
make
two
pasties
of
your
shameful
heads
,
And
bid
that
strumpet
,
your
unhallowed
dam
,
Like
to
the
earth
swallow
her
own
increase
.
This
is
the
feast
that
I
have
bid
her
to
,
And
this
the
banquet
she
shall
surfeit
on
;
For
worse
than
Philomel
you
used
my
daughter
,
And
worse
than
Procne
I
will
be
revenged
.
And
now
prepare
your
throats
.
—
Lavinia
,
come
,
Receive
the
blood
.
And
when
that
they
are
dead
,
Let
me
go
grind
their
bones
to
powder
small
,
And
with
this
hateful
liquor
temper
it
,
And
in
that
paste
let
their
vile
heads
be
baked
.
Come
,
come
,
be
everyone
officious
To
make
this
banquet
,
which
I
wish
may
prove
More
stern
and
bloody
than
the
Centaurs’
feast
.
So
.
Now
bring
them
in
,
for
I’ll
play
the
cook
And
see
them
ready
against
their
mother
comes
.
You
sad-faced
men
,
people
and
sons
of
Rome
,
By
uproars
severed
as
a
flight
of
fowl
Scattered
by
winds
and
high
tempestuous
gusts
,
O
,
let
me
teach
you
how
to
knit
again
This
scattered
corn
into
one
mutual
sheaf
,
These
broken
limbs
again
into
one
body
,
Lest
Rome
herself
be
bane
unto
herself
,
And
she
whom
mighty
kingdoms
curtsy
to
,
Like
a
forlorn
and
desperate
castaway
,
Do
shameful
execution
on
herself
.
But
if
my
frosty
signs
and
chaps
of
age
,
Grave
witnesses
of
true
experience
,
Cannot
induce
you
to
attend
my
words
,
Speak
,
Rome’s
dear
friend
,
as
erst
our
ancestor
,
When
with
his
solemn
tongue
he
did
discourse
To
lovesick
Dido’s
sad-attending
ear
The
story
of
that
baleful
burning
night
When
subtle
Greeks
surprised
King
Priam’s
Troy
.
Tell
us
what
Sinon
hath
bewitched
our
ears
,
Or
who
hath
brought
the
fatal
engine
in
That
gives
our
Troy
,
our
Rome
,
the
civil
wound
.
—
My
heart
is
not
compact
of
flint
nor
steel
,
Nor
can
I
utter
all
our
bitter
grief
,
But
floods
of
tears
will
drown
my
oratory
And
break
my
utterance
even
in
the
time
When
it
should
move
you
to
attend
me
most
And
force
you
to
commiseration
.
Here’s
Rome’s
young
captain
.
Let
him
tell
the
tale
,
While
I
stand
by
and
weep
to
hear
him
speak
.
Then
,
gracious
auditory
,
be
it
known
to
you
That
Chiron
and
the
damned
Demetrius
Were
they
that
murderèd
our
emperor’s
brother
,
And
they
it
were
that
ravishèd
our
sister
.
For
their
fell
faults
our
brothers
were
beheaded
,
Our
father’s
tears
despised
,
and
basely
cozened
Of
that
true
hand
that
fought
Rome’s
quarrel
out
And
sent
her
enemies
unto
the
grave
;
Lastly
,
myself
unkindly
banishèd
,
The
gates
shut
on
me
,
and
turned
weeping
out
To
beg
relief
among
Rome’s
enemies
,
Who
drowned
their
enmity
in
my
true
tears
And
oped
their
arms
to
embrace
me
as
a
friend
.
I
am
the
turned-forth
,
be
it
known
to
you
,
That
have
preserved
her
welfare
in
my
blood
And
from
her
bosom
took
the
enemy’s
point
,
Sheathing
the
steel
in
my
advent’rous
body
.
Alas
,
you
know
I
am
no
vaunter
,
I
;
My
scars
can
witness
,
dumb
although
they
are
,
That
my
report
is
just
and
full
of
truth
.
But
soft
,
methinks
I
do
digress
too
much
,
Citing
my
worthless
praise
.
O
,
pardon
me
,
For
when
no
friends
are
by
,
men
praise
themselves
.
Thanks
,
gentle
Romans
.
May
I
govern
so
To
heal
Rome’s
harms
and
wipe
away
her
woe
!
But
,
gentle
people
,
give
me
aim
awhile
,
For
nature
puts
me
to
a
heavy
task
.
Stand
all
aloof
,
but
,
uncle
,
draw
you
near
To
shed
obsequious
tears
upon
this
trunk
.
O
,
take
this
warm
kiss
on
thy
pale
cold
lips
,
These
sorrowful
drops
upon
thy
bloodstained
face
,
The
last
true
duties
of
thy
noble
son
.
In
Troy
there
lies
the
scene
.
From
isles
of
Greece
The
princes
orgulous
,
their
high
blood
chafed
,
Have
to
the
port
of
Athens
sent
their
ships
Fraught
with
the
ministers
and
instruments
Of
cruel
war
.
Sixty
and
nine
,
that
wore
Their
crownets
regal
,
from
th’
Athenian
bay
Put
forth
toward
Phrygia
,
and
their
vow
is
made
To
ransack
Troy
,
within
whose
strong
immures
The
ravished
Helen
,
Menelaus’
queen
,
With
wanton
Paris
sleeps
;
and
that’s
the
quarrel
.
To
Tenedos
they
come
,
And
the
deep-drawing
barks
do
there
disgorge
Their
warlike
fraughtage
.
Now
on
Dardan
plains
The
fresh
and
yet
unbruisèd
Greeks
do
pitch
Their
brave
pavilions
.
Priam’s
six-gated
city
—
Dardan
and
Timbria
,
Helias
,
Chetas
,
Troien
,
And
Antenorides
—
with
massy
staples
And
corresponsive
and
fulfilling
bolts
,
Spar
up
the
sons
of
Troy
.
Now
expectation
,
tickling
skittish
spirits
On
one
and
other
side
,
Trojan
and
Greek
,
Sets
all
on
hazard
.
And
hither
am
I
come
,
A
prologue
armed
,
but
not
in
confidence
Of
author’s
pen
or
actor’s
voice
,
but
suited
In
like
conditions
as
our
argument
,
To
tell
you
,
fair
beholders
,
that
our
play
Leaps
o’er
the
vaunt
and
firstlings
of
those
broils
,
Beginning
in
the
middle
,
starting
thence
away
To
what
may
be
digested
in
a
play
.
Like
,
or
find
fault
;
do
as
your
pleasures
are
.
Now
,
good
or
bad
,
’tis
but
the
chance
of
war
.
Well
,
she
looked
yesternight
fairer
than
ever
I
saw
her
look
,
or
any
woman
else
.
Peace
,
you
ungracious
clamors
!
Peace
,
rude
sounds
!
Fools
on
both
sides
!
Helen
must
needs
be
fair
When
with
your
blood
you
daily
paint
her
thus
.
I
cannot
fight
upon
this
argument
;
It
is
too
starved
a
subject
for
my
sword
.
But
Pandarus
—
O
gods
,
how
do
you
plague
me
!
I
cannot
come
to
Cressid
but
by
Pandar
,
And
he’s
as
tetchy
to
be
wooed
to
woo
As
she
is
stubborn-chaste
against
all
suit
.
Tell
me
,
Apollo
,
for
thy
Daphnes
love
,
What
Cressid
is
,
what
Pandar
,
and
what
we
.
Her
bed
is
India
;
there
she
lies
,
a
pearl
.
Between
our
Ilium
and
where
she
resides
,
Let
it
be
called
the
wild
and
wand’ring
flood
,
Ourself
the
merchant
,
and
this
sailing
Pandar
Our
doubtful
hope
,
our
convoy
,
and
our
bark
.
The
noise
goes
,
this
:
there
is
among
the
Greeks
A
lord
of
Trojan
blood
,
nephew
to
Hector
.
They
call
him
Ajax
.
That’s
Hector
,
that
,
that
,
look
you
,
that
.
There’s
a
fellow
!
—
Go
thy
way
,
Hector
!
—
There’s
a
brave
man
,
niece
.
O
brave
Hector
!
Look
how
he
looks
.
There’s
a
countenance
!
Is
’t
not
a
brave
man
?
Is
he
not
?
It
does
a
man’s
heart
good
.
Look
you
what
hacks
are
on
his
helmet
.
Look
you
yonder
,
do
you
see
?
Look
you
there
.
There’s
no
jesting
;
there’s
laying
on
,
take
’t
off
who
will
,
as
they
say
.
There
be
hacks
.
Swords
,
anything
,
he
cares
not
.
An
the
devil
come
to
him
,
it’s
all
one
.
By
God’s
lid
,
it
does
one’s
heart
good
.
Yonder
comes
Paris
,
yonder
comes
Paris
!
Look
you
yonder
,
niece
.
Is
’t
not
a
gallant
man
too
?
Is
’t
not
?
Why
,
this
is
brave
now
.
Who
said
he
came
hurt
home
today
?
He’s
not
hurt
.
Why
,
this
will
do
Helen’s
heart
good
now
,
ha
?
Would
I
could
see
Troilus
now
!
You
shall
see
Troilus
anon
.
Mark
him
.
Note
him
.
O
brave
Troilus
!
Look
well
upon
him
,
niece
.
Look
you
how
his
sword
is
bloodied
and
his
helm
more
hacked
than
Hector’s
,
and
how
he
looks
,
and
how
he
goes
.
O
admirable
youth
!
He
never
saw
three
and
twenty
.
—
Go
thy
way
,
Troilus
;
go
thy
way
!
—
Had
I
a
sister
were
a
Grace
,
or
a
daughter
a
goddess
,
he
should
take
his
choice
.
O
admirable
man
!
Paris
?
Paris
is
dirt
to
him
;
and
I
warrant
Helen
,
to
change
,
would
give
an
eye
to
boot
.
Asses
,
fools
,
dolts
,
chaff
and
bran
,
chaff
and
bran
,
porridge
after
meat
.
I
could
live
and
die
in
the
eyes
of
Troilus
.
Ne’er
look
,
ne’er
look
;
the
eagles
are
gone
.
Crows
and
daws
,
crows
and
daws
!
I
had
rather
be
such
a
man
as
Troilus
than
Agamemnon
and
all
Greece
.
Troy
,
yet
upon
his
basis
,
had
been
down
,
And
the
great
Hector’s
sword
had
lacked
a
master
But
for
these
instances
:
The
specialty
of
rule
hath
been
neglected
,
And
look
how
many
Grecian
tents
do
stand
Hollow
upon
this
plain
,
so
many
hollow
factions
.
When
that
the
general
is
not
like
the
hive
To
whom
the
foragers
shall
all
repair
,
What
honey
is
expected
?
Degree
being
vizarded
,
Th’
unworthiest
shows
as
fairly
in
the
mask
.
The
heavens
themselves
,
the
planets
,
and
this
center
Observe
degree
,
priority
,
and
place
,
Insisture
,
course
,
proportion
,
season
,
form
,
Office
,
and
custom
,
in
all
line
of
order
.
And
therefore
is
the
glorious
planet
Sol
In
noble
eminence
enthroned
and
sphered
Amidst
the
other
,
whose
med’cinable
eye
Corrects
the
influence
of
evil
planets
,
And
posts
,
like
the
commandment
of
a
king
,
Sans
check
,
to
good
and
bad
.
But
when
the
planets
In
evil
mixture
to
disorder
wander
,
What
plagues
and
what
portents
,
what
mutiny
,
What
raging
of
the
sea
,
shaking
of
Earth
earth
,
Commotion
in
the
winds
,
frights
,
changes
,
horrors
Divert
and
crack
,
rend
and
deracinate
The
unity
and
married
calm
of
states
Quite
from
their
fixture
!
O
,
when
degree
is
shaked
,
Which
is
the
ladder
of
all
high
designs
,
The
enterprise
is
sick
.
How
could
communities
,
Degrees
in
schools
and
brotherhoods
in
cities
,
Peaceful
commerce
from
dividable
shores
,
The
primogeneity
and
due
of
birth
,
Prerogative
of
age
,
crowns
,
scepters
,
laurels
,
But
by
degree
stand
in
authentic
place
?
Take
but
degree
away
,
untune
that
string
,
And
hark
what
discord
follows
.
Each
thing
meets
In
mere
oppugnancy
.
The
bounded
waters
Should
lift
their
bosoms
higher
than
the
shores
And
make
a
sop
of
all
this
solid
globe
;
Strength
should
be
lord
of
imbecility
,
And
the
rude
son
should
strike
his
father
dead
;
Force
should
be
right
,
or
,
rather
,
right
and
wrong
,
Between
whose
endless
jar
justice
resides
,
Should
lose
their
names
,
and
so
should
justice
too
.
Then
everything
includes
itself
in
power
,
Power
into
will
,
will
into
appetite
,
And
appetite
,
an
universal
wolf
,
So
doubly
seconded
with
will
and
power
,
Must
make
perforce
an
universal
prey
And
last
eat
up
himself
.
Great
Agamemnon
,
This
chaos
,
when
degree
is
suffocate
,
Follows
the
choking
.
And
this
neglection
of
degree
it
is
That
by
a
pace
goes
backward
,
with
a
purpose
It
hath
to
climb
.
The
General’s
disdained
By
him
one
step
below
,
he
by
the
next
,
That
next
by
him
beneath
;
so
every
step
,
Exampled
by
the
first
pace
that
is
sick
Of
his
superior
,
grows
to
an
envious
fever
Of
pale
and
bloodless
emulation
.
And
’tis
this
fever
that
keeps
Troy
on
foot
,
Not
her
own
sinews
.
To
end
a
tale
of
length
,
Troy
in
our
weakness
stands
,
not
in
her
strength
.
What trumpet ? Look , Menelaus .
Fair
leave
and
large
security
.
How
may
A
stranger
to
those
most
imperial
looks
Know
them
from
eyes
of
other
mortals
?
Tell
him
of
Nestor
,
one
that
was
a
man
When
Hector’s
grandsire
sucked
.
He
is
old
now
,
But
if
there
be
not
in
our
Grecian
host
A
noble
man
that
hath
one
spark
of
fire
To
answer
for
his
love
,
tell
him
from
me
I’ll
hide
my
silver
beard
in
a
gold
beaver
And
in
my
vambrace
put
my
withered
brawns
And
,
meeting
him
,
will
tell
him
that
my
lady
Was
fairer
than
his
grandam
and
as
chaste
As
may
be
in
the
world
.
His
youth
in
flood
,
I’ll
prove
this
troth
with
my
three
drops
of
blood
.
Nay , look upon him .
But
yet
you
look
not
well
upon
him
,
for
whosomever
you
take
him
to
be
,
he
is
Ajax
.
I
would
have
peace
and
quietness
,
but
the
fool
will
not
—
he
there
,
that
he
.
Look
you
there
.
Now
,
youthful
Troilus
,
do
not
these
high
strains
Of
divination
in
our
sister
work
Some
touches
of
remorse
?
Or
is
your
blood
So
madly
hot
that
no
discourse
of
reason
Nor
fear
of
bad
success
in
a
bad
cause
Can
qualify
the
same
?
Paris
and
Troilus
,
you
have
both
said
well
,
And
on
the
cause
and
question
now
in
hand
Have
glozed
—
but
superficially
,
not
much
Unlike
young
men
,
whom
Aristotle
thought
Unfit
to
hear
moral
philosophy
.
The
reasons
you
allege
do
more
conduce
To
the
hot
passion
of
distempered
blood
Than
to
make
up
a
free
determination
’Twixt
right
and
wrong
,
for
pleasure
and
revenge
Have
ears
more
deaf
than
adders
to
the
voice
Of
any
true
decision
.
Nature
craves
All
dues
be
rendered
to
their
owners
.
Now
,
What
nearer
debt
in
all
humanity
Than
wife
is
to
the
husband
?
If
this
law
Of
nature
be
corrupted
through
affection
,
And
that
great
minds
,
of
partial
indulgence
To
their
benumbèd
wills
,
resist
the
same
,
There
is
a
law
in
each
well-ordered
nation
To
curb
those
raging
appetites
that
are
Most
disobedient
and
refractory
.
If
Helen
,
then
,
be
wife
to
Sparta’s
king
,
As
it
is
known
she
is
,
these
moral
laws
Of
nature
and
of
nations
speak
aloud
To
have
her
back
returned
.
Thus
to
persist
In
doing
wrong
extenuates
not
wrong
,
But
makes
it
much
more
heavy
.
Hector’s
opinion
Is
this
in
way
of
truth
;
yet
,
ne’ertheless
,
My
sprightly
brethren
,
I
propend
to
you
In
resolution
to
keep
Helen
still
,
For
’tis
a
cause
that
hath
no
mean
dependence
Upon
our
joint
and
several
dignities
.
Why
,
there
you
touched
the
life
of
our
design
!
Were
it
not
glory
that
we
more
affected
Than
the
performance
of
our
heaving
spleens
,
I
would
not
wish
a
drop
of
Trojan
blood
Spent
more
in
her
defense
.
But
,
worthy
Hector
,
She
is
a
theme
of
honor
and
renown
,
A
spur
to
valiant
and
magnanimous
deeds
,
Whose
present
courage
may
beat
down
our
foes
,
And
fame
in
time
to
come
canonize
us
;
For
I
presume
brave
Hector
would
not
lose
So
rich
advantage
of
a
promised
glory
As
smiles
upon
the
forehead
of
this
action
For
the
wide
world’s
revenue
.
If
I
could
’a
remembered
a
gilt
counterfeit
,
thou
couldst
not
have
slipped
out
of
my
contemplation
.
But
it
is
no
matter
.
Thyself
upon
thyself
!
The
common
curse
of
mankind
,
folly
and
ignorance
,
be
thine
in
great
revenue
!
Heaven
bless
thee
from
a
tutor
,
and
discipline
come
not
near
thee
!
Let
thy
blood
be
thy
direction
till
thy
death
;
then
if
she
that
lays
thee
out
says
thou
art
a
fair
corse
,
I’ll
be
sworn
and
sworn
upon
’t
she
never
shrouded
any
but
lazars
.
Amen
.
Where’s
Achilles
?
Make
that
demand
of
the
creator
.
It
suffices
me
thou
art
.
Look
you
,
who
comes
here
?
Things
small
as
nothing
,
for
request’s
sake
only
,
He
makes
important
.
Possessed
he
is
with
greatness
And
speaks
not
to
himself
but
with
a
pride
That
quarrels
at
self-breath
.
Imagined
worth
Holds
in
his
blood
such
swoll’n
and
hot
discourse
That
’twixt
his
mental
and
his
active
parts
Kingdomed
Achilles
in
commotion
rages
And
batters
down
himself
.
What
should
I
say
?
He
is
so
plaguy
proud
that
the
death-tokens
of
it
Cry
No
recovery
.
I’ll let his humorous blood .
That’s
to
’t
indeed
,
sir
.
Marry
,
sir
,
at
the
request
of
Paris
my
lord
,
who
is
there
in
person
;
with
him
the
mortal
Venus
,
the
heart
blood
of
beauty
,
love’s
visible
soul
.
He
eats
nothing
but
doves
,
love
,
and
that
breeds
hot
blood
,
and
hot
blood
begets
hot
thoughts
,
and
hot
thoughts
beget
hot
deeds
,
and
hot
deeds
is
love
.
Is
this
the
generation
of
love
?
Hot
blood
,
hot
thoughts
,
and
hot
deeds
?
Why
,
they
are
vipers
.
Is
love
a
generation
of
vipers
?
Sweet
lord
,
who’s
afield
today
?
O
,
that
I
thought
it
could
be
in
a
woman
—
As
,
if
it
can
,
I
will
presume
in
you
—
To
feed
for
aye
her
lamp
and
flames
of
love
,
To
keep
her
constancy
in
plight
and
youth
,
Outliving
beauty’s
outward
,
with
a
mind
That
doth
renew
swifter
than
blood
decays
!
Or
that
persuasion
could
but
thus
convince
me
That
my
integrity
and
truth
to
you
Might
be
affronted
with
the
match
and
weight
Of
such
a
winnowed
purity
in
love
;
How
were
I
then
uplifted
!
But
,
alas
,
I
am
as
true
as
truth’s
simplicity
And
simpler
than
the
infancy
of
truth
.
You
have
a
Trojan
prisoner
called
Antenor
Yesterday
took
.
Troy
holds
him
very
dear
.
Oft
have
you
—
often
have
you
thanks
therefor
—
Desired
my
Cressid
in
right
great
exchange
,
Whom
Troy
hath
still
denied
;
but
this
Antenor
,
I
know
,
is
such
a
wrest
in
their
affairs
That
their
negotiations
all
must
slack
,
Wanting
his
manage
;
and
they
will
almost
Give
us
a
prince
of
blood
,
a
son
of
Priam
,
In
change
of
him
.
Let
him
be
sent
,
great
princes
,
And
he
shall
buy
my
daughter
;
and
her
presence
Shall
quite
strike
off
all
service
I
have
done
In
most
accepted
pain
.
Achilles
stands
i’
th’
entrance
of
his
tent
.
Please
it
our
General
pass
strangely
by
him
As
if
he
were
forgot
,
and
,
princes
all
,
Lay
negligent
and
loose
regard
upon
him
.
I
will
come
last
.
’Tis
like
he’ll
question
me
Why
such
unplausive
eyes
are
bent
,
why
turned
on
him
.
If
so
,
I
have
derision
medicinable
To
use
between
your
strangeness
and
his
pride
,
Which
his
own
will
shall
have
desire
to
drink
.
It
may
do
good
;
pride
hath
no
other
glass
To
show
itself
but
pride
,
for
supple
knees
Feed
arrogance
and
are
the
proud
man’s
fees
.
We’ll
execute
your
purpose
and
put
on
A
form
of
strangeness
as
we
pass
along
;
So
do
each
lord
,
and
either
greet
him
not
Or
else
disdainfully
,
which
shall
shake
him
more
Than
if
not
looked
on
.
I
will
lead
the
way
.
What
,
am
I
poor
of
late
?
’Tis
certain
,
greatness
,
once
fall’n
out
with
Fortune
,
Must
fall
out
with
men
too
.
What
the
declined
is
He
shall
as
soon
read
in
the
eyes
of
others
As
feel
in
his
own
fall
,
for
men
,
like
butterflies
,
Show
not
their
mealy
wings
but
to
the
summer
,
And
not
a
man
,
for
being
simply
man
,
Hath
any
honor
,
but
honor
for
those
honors
That
are
without
him
—
as
place
,
riches
,
and
favor
,
Prizes
of
accident
as
oft
as
merit
,
Which
,
when
they
fall
,
as
being
slippery
slanders
,
The
love
that
leaned
on
them
,
as
slippery
too
,
Doth
one
pluck
down
another
and
together
Die
in
the
fall
.
But
’tis
not
so
with
me
.
Fortune
and
I
are
friends
.
I
do
enjoy
,
At
ample
point
,
all
that
I
did
possess
,
Save
these
men’s
looks
,
who
do
,
methinks
,
find
out
Something
not
worth
in
me
such
rich
beholding
As
they
have
often
given
.
Here
is
Ulysses
.
I’ll
interrupt
his
reading
.
—
How
now
,
Ulysses
?
I
do
believe
it
,
for
they
passed
by
me
As
misers
do
by
beggars
,
neither
gave
to
me
Good
word
nor
look
.
What
,
are
my
deeds
forgot
?
To
this
effect
,
Achilles
,
have
I
moved
you
.
A
woman
impudent
and
mannish
grown
Is
not
more
loathed
than
an
effeminate
man
In
time
of
action
.
I
stand
condemned
for
this
.
They
think
my
little
stomach
to
the
war
,
And
your
great
love
to
me
,
restrains
you
thus
.
Sweet
,
rouse
yourself
,
and
the
weak
wanton
Cupid
Shall
from
your
neck
unloose
his
amorous
fold
And
,
like
a
dewdrop
from
the
lion’s
mane
,
Be
shook
to
air
.
The
one
and
other
Diomed
embraces
.
Our
bloods
are
now
in
calm
,
and
,
so
long
,
health
;
But
when
contention
and
occasion
meet
,
By
Jove
,
I’ll
play
the
hunter
for
thy
life
With
all
my
force
,
pursuit
,
and
policy
.
I
will
not
,
uncle
.
I
have
forgot
my
father
.
I
know
no
touch
of
consanguinity
,
No
kin
,
no
love
,
no
blood
,
no
soul
so
near
me
As
the
sweet
Troilus
.
O
you
gods
divine
,
Make
Cressid’s
name
the
very
crown
of
falsehood
If
ever
she
leave
Troilus
!
Time
,
force
,
and
death
Do
to
this
body
what
extremes
you
can
,
But
the
strong
base
and
building
of
my
love
Is
as
the
very
center
of
the
Earth
earth
,
Drawing
all
things
to
it
.
I’ll
go
in
and
weep
—
And
suddenly
,
where
injury
of
chance
Puts
back
leave-taking
,
jostles
roughly
by
All
time
of
pause
,
rudely
beguiles
our
lips
Of
all
rejoindure
,
forcibly
prevents
Our
locked
embrasures
,
strangles
our
dear
vows
Even
in
the
birth
of
our
own
laboring
breath
.
We
two
,
that
with
so
many
thousand
sighs
Did
buy
each
other
,
must
poorly
sell
ourselves
With
the
rude
brevity
and
discharge
of
one
.
Injurious
Time
now
with
a
robber’s
haste
Crams
his
rich
thiev’ry
up
,
he
knows
not
how
.
As
many
farewells
as
be
stars
in
heaven
,
With
distinct
breath
and
consigned
kisses
to
them
,
He
fumbles
up
into
a
loose
adieu
And
scants
us
with
a
single
famished
kiss
,
Distasted
with
the
salt
of
broken
tears
.
Thou
,
trumpet
,
there’s
my
purse
.
Now
crack
thy
lungs
and
split
thy
brazen
pipe
.
Blow
,
villain
,
till
thy
spherèd
bias
cheek
Outswell
the
colic
of
puffed
Aquilon
.
Come
,
stretch
thy
chest
,
and
let
thy
eyes
spout
blood
.
Thou
blowest
for
Hector
.
Fie
,
fie
upon
her
!
There’s
language
in
her
eye
,
her
cheek
,
her
lip
;
Nay
,
her
foot
speaks
.
Her
wanton
spirits
look
out
At
every
joint
and
motive
of
her
body
.
O
,
these
encounterers
,
so
glib
of
tongue
,
That
give
accosting
welcome
ere
it
comes
And
wide
unclasp
the
tables
of
their
thoughts
To
every
tickling
reader
!
Set
them
down
For
sluttish
spoils
of
opportunity
And
daughters
of
the
game
.
Therefore
Achilles
.
But
whate’er
,
know
this
:
In
the
extremity
of
great
and
little
,
Valor
and
pride
excel
themselves
in
Hector
,
The
one
almost
as
infinite
as
all
,
The
other
blank
as
nothing
.
Weigh
him
well
,
And
that
which
looks
like
pride
is
courtesy
.
This
Ajax
is
half
made
of
Hector’s
blood
,
In
love
whereof
half
Hector
stays
at
home
;
Half
heart
,
half
hand
,
half
Hector
comes
to
seek
This
blended
knight
,
half
Trojan
and
half
Greek
.
What
Trojan
is
that
same
that
looks
so
heavy
?
Why
,
then
,
will
I
no
more
.
—
Thou
art
,
great
lord
,
my
father’s
sister’s
son
,
A
cousin-german
to
great
Priam’s
seed
.
The
obligation
of
our
blood
forbids
A
gory
emulation
’twixt
us
twain
.
Were
thy
commixtion
Greek
and
Trojan
so
That
thou
couldst
say
This
hand
is
Grecian
all
,
And
this
is
Trojan
;
the
sinews
of
this
leg
All
Greek
,
and
this
all
Troy
;
my
mother’s
blood
Runs
on
the
dexter
cheek
,
and
this
sinister
Bounds
in
my
father’s
,
by
Jove
multipotent
,
Thou
shouldst
not
bear
from
me
a
Greekish
member
Wherein
my
sword
had
not
impressure
made
Of
our
rank
feud
.
But
the
just
gods
gainsay
That
any
drop
thou
borrowd’st
from
thy
mother
,
My
sacred
aunt
,
should
by
my
mortal
sword
Be
drained
.
Let
me
embrace
thee
,
Ajax
.
By
him
that
thunders
,
thou
hast
lusty
arms
!
Hector
would
have
them
fall
upon
him
thus
.
Cousin
,
all
honor
to
thee
!
I
must
not
believe
you
.
There
they
stand
yet
,
and
modestly
I
think
The
fall
of
every
Phrygian
stone
will
cost
A
drop
of
Grecian
blood
.
The
end
crowns
all
,
And
that
old
common
arbitrator
,
Time
,
Will
one
day
end
it
.
Stand
fair
,
I
pray
thee
.
Let
me
look
on
thee
.
At
Menelaus’
tent
,
most
princely
Troilus
.
There
Diomed
doth
feast
with
him
tonight
,
Who
neither
looks
upon
the
heaven
nor
Earth
earth
,
But
gives
all
gaze
and
bent
of
amorous
view
On
the
fair
Cressid
.
I’ll
heat
his
blood
with
Greekish
wine
tonight
,
Which
with
my
scimitar
I’ll
cool
tomorrow
.
Patroclus
,
let
us
feast
him
to
the
height
.
With
too
much
blood
and
too
little
brain
,
these
two
may
run
mad
;
but
if
with
too
much
brain
and
too
little
blood
they
do
,
I’ll
be
a
curer
of
madmen
.
Here’s
Agamemnon
,
an
honest
fellow
enough
and
one
that
loves
quails
,
but
he
has
not
so
much
brain
as
earwax
.
And
the
goodly
transformation
of
Jupiter
there
,
his
brother
,
the
bull
—
the
primitive
statue
and
oblique
memorial
of
cuckolds
,
a
thrifty
shoeing-horn
in
a
chain
,
hanging
at
his
brother’s
leg
—
to
what
form
but
that
he
is
should
wit
larded
with
malice
and
malice
forced
with
wit
turn
him
to
?
To
an
ass
were
nothing
;
he
is
both
ass
and
ox
.
To
an
ox
were
nothing
;
he
is
both
ox
and
ass
.
To
be
a
dog
,
a
mule
,
a
cat
,
a
fitchew
,
a
toad
,
a
lizard
,
an
owl
,
a
puttock
,
or
a
herring
without
a
roe
,
I
would
not
care
;
but
to
be
Menelaus
!
I
would
conspire
against
destiny
.
Ask
me
not
what
I
would
be
,
if
I
were
not
Thersites
,
for
I
care
not
to
be
the
louse
of
a
lazar
so
I
were
not
Menelaus
.
Heyday
!
Sprites
and
fires
!
You
look
upon
that
sleeve
?
Behold
it
well
.
He
loved
me
—
O
false
wench
!
—
Give
’t
me
again
.
Good
night
.
I
prithee
,
come
.
—
Troilus
,
farewell
.
One
eye
yet
looks
on
thee
,
But
with
my
heart
the
other
eye
doth
see
.
Ah
,
poor
our
sex
!
This
fault
in
us
I
find
:
The
error
of
our
eye
directs
our
mind
.
What
error
leads
must
err
.
O
,
then
conclude
:
Minds
swayed
by
eyes
are
full
of
turpitude
.
This
she
?
No
,
this
is
Diomed’s
Cressida
.
If
beauty
have
a
soul
,
this
is
not
she
;
If
souls
guide
vows
,
if
vows
be
sanctimonies
,
If
sanctimony
be
the
gods’
delight
,
If
there
be
rule
in
unity
itself
,
This
is
not
she
.
O
madness
of
discourse
,
That
cause
sets
up
with
and
against
itself
!
Bifold
authority
,
where
reason
can
revolt
Without
perdition
,
and
loss
assume
all
reason
Without
revolt
.
This
is
and
is
not
Cressid
.
Within
my
soul
there
doth
conduce
a
fight
Of
this
strange
nature
,
that
a
thing
inseparate
Divides
more
wider
than
the
sky
and
Earth
earth
,
And
yet
the
spacious
breadth
of
this
division
Admits
no
orifex
for
a
point
as
subtle
As
Ariachne’s
broken
woof
to
enter
.
Instance
,
O
instance
,
strong
as
Pluto’s
gates
,
Cressid
is
mine
,
tied
with
the
bonds
of
heaven
;
Instance
,
O
instance
,
strong
as
heaven
itself
,
The
bonds
of
heaven
are
slipped
,
dissolved
,
and
loosed
,
And
with
another
knot
,
five-finger-tied
,
The
fractions
of
her
faith
,
orts
of
her
love
,
The
fragments
,
scraps
,
the
bits
and
greasy
relics
Of
her
o’er-eaten
faith
are
given
to
Diomed
.
Here
,
sister
,
armed
and
bloody
in
intent
.
Consort
with
me
in
loud
and
dear
petition
;
Pursue
we
him
on
knees
.
For
I
have
dreamt
Of
bloody
turbulence
,
and
this
whole
night
Hath
nothing
been
but
shapes
and
forms
of
slaughter
.
Lay
hold
upon
him
,
Priam
;
hold
him
fast
.
He
is
thy
crutch
.
Now
if
thou
loose
thy
stay
,
Thou
on
him
leaning
,
and
all
Troy
on
thee
,
Fall
all
together
.
O
farewell
,
dear
Hector
.
Look
how
thou
diest
!
Look
how
thy
eye
turns
pale
!
Look
how
thy
wounds
do
bleed
at
many
vents
!
Hark
,
how
Troy
roars
,
how
Hecuba
cries
out
,
How
poor
Andromache
shrills
her
dolor
forth
!
Behold
,
distraction
,
frenzy
,
and
amazement
,
Like
witless
antics
,
one
another
meet
,
And
all
cry
Hector
!
Hector’s
dead
!
O
,
Hector
!
Now
they
are
clapper-clawing
one
another
.
I’ll
go
look
on
.
That
dissembling
abominable
varlet
,
Diomed
,
has
got
that
same
scurvy
doting
foolish
young
knave’s
sleeve
of
Troy
there
in
his
helm
.
I
would
fain
see
them
meet
,
that
that
same
young
Trojan
ass
that
loves
the
whore
there
might
send
that
Greekish
whoremasterly
villain
with
the
sleeve
back
to
the
dissembling
luxurious
drab
,
of
a
sleeveless
errand
.
O’
th’
t’other
side
,
the
policy
of
those
crafty
swearing
rascals
—
that
stale
old
mouse-eaten
dry
cheese
,
Nestor
,
and
that
same
dog-fox
,
Ulysses
—
is
proved
not
worth
a
blackberry
.
They
set
me
up
,
in
policy
,
that
mongrel
cur
,
Ajax
,
against
that
dog
of
as
bad
a
kind
,
Achilles
.
And
now
is
the
cur
Ajax
prouder
than
the
cur
Achilles
,
and
will
not
arm
today
,
whereupon
the
Grecians
begin
to
proclaim
barbarism
,
and
policy
grows
into
an
ill
opinion
.
Soft
!
Here
comes
sleeve
and
t’
other
.
What
art
thou
,
Greek
?
Art
thou
for
Hector’s
match
?
Art
thou
of
blood
and
honor
?
O
,
courage
,
courage
,
princes
!
Great
Achilles
Is
arming
,
weeping
,
cursing
,
vowing
vengeance
.
Patroclus’
wounds
have
roused
his
drowsy
blood
,
Together
with
his
mangled
Myrmidons
,
That
noseless
,
handless
,
hacked
and
chipped
,
come
to
him
,
Crying
on
Hector
.
Ajax
hath
lost
a
friend
And
foams
at
mouth
,
and
he
is
armed
and
at
it
,
Roaring
for
Troilus
,
who
hath
done
today
Mad
and
fantastic
execution
,
Engaging
and
redeeming
of
himself
With
such
a
careless
force
and
forceless
care
As
if
that
luck
,
in
very
spite
of
cunning
,
Bade
him
win
all
.
He
is
my
prize
.
I
will
not
look
upon
.
Come
here
about
me
,
you
my
Myrmidons
.
Mark
what
I
say
.
Attend
me
where
I
wheel
.
Strike
not
a
stroke
,
but
keep
yourselves
in
breath
,
And
,
when
I
have
the
bloody
Hector
found
,
Empale
him
with
your
weapons
round
about
.
In
fellest
manner
execute
your
arms
.
Follow
me
,
sirs
,
and
my
proceedings
eye
.
It
is
decreed
Hector
the
great
must
die
.
The
cuckold
and
the
cuckold-maker
are
at
it
.
Now
,
bull
!
Now
,
dog
!
Loo
,
Paris
,
loo
!
Now
,
my
double-horned
Spartan
!
Loo
,
Paris
,
loo
!
The
bull
has
the
game
.
Ware
horns
,
ho
!
Most
putrefied
core
,
so
fair
without
,
Thy
goodly
armor
thus
hath
cost
thy
life
.
Now
is
my
day’s
work
done
.
I’ll
take
my
breath
.
Rest
,
sword
;
thou
hast
thy
fill
of
blood
and
death
.
Look
,
Hector
,
how
the
sun
begins
to
set
,
How
ugly
night
comes
breathing
at
his
heels
.
Even
with
the
vail
and
dark’ning
of
the
sun
To
close
the
day
up
,
Hector’s
life
is
done
.
Stand
you
awhile
aloof
.
—
Cesario
,
Thou
know’st
no
less
but
all
.
I
have
unclasped
To
thee
the
book
even
of
my
secret
soul
.
Therefore
,
good
youth
,
address
thy
gait
unto
her
.
Be
not
denied
access
.
Stand
at
her
doors
And
tell
them
,
there
thy
fixèd
foot
shall
grow
Till
thou
have
audience
.
I
marvel
your
Ladyship
takes
delight
in
such
a
barren
rascal
.
I
saw
him
put
down
the
other
day
with
an
ordinary
fool
that
has
no
more
brain
than
a
stone
.
Look
you
now
,
he’s
out
of
his
guard
already
.
Unless
you
laugh
and
minister
occasion
to
him
,
he
is
gagged
.
I
protest
I
take
these
wise
men
that
crow
so
at
these
set
kind
of
Fools
no
better
than
the
Fools’
zanies
.
Go
thou
and
seek
the
crowner
and
let
him
sit
o’
my
coz
,
for
he’s
in
the
third
degree
of
drink
:
he’s
drowned
.
Go
look
after
him
.
He
is
but
mad
yet
,
madonna
,
and
the
Fool
shall
look
to
the
madman
.
Have
you
any
commission
from
your
lord
to
negotiate
with
my
face
?
You
are
now
out
of
your
text
.
But
we
will
draw
the
curtain
and
show
you
the
picture
.
Look
you
,
sir
,
such
a
one
I
was
this
present
.
Is
’t
not
well
done
?
My
lady’s
a
Cataian
,
we
are
politicians
,
Malvolio’s
a
Peg-a-Ramsey
,
and
Three
merry
men
be
we
.
Am
not
I
consanguineous
?
Am
I
not
of
her
blood
?
Tillyvally
!
Lady
!
There
dwelt
a
man
in
Babylon
,
lady
,
lady
.
The
devil
a
puritan
that
he
is
,
or
anything
constantly
but
a
time-pleaser
;
an
affectioned
ass
that
cons
state
without
book
and
utters
it
by
great
swaths
;
the
best
persuaded
of
himself
,
so
crammed
,
as
he
thinks
,
with
excellencies
,
that
it
is
his
grounds
of
faith
that
all
that
look
on
him
love
him
.
And
on
that
vice
in
him
will
my
revenge
find
notable
cause
to
work
.
O
,
peace
,
now
he’s
deeply
in
.
Look
how
imagination
blows
him
.
I
may
command
where
I
adore
,
But
silence
,
like
a
Lucrece
knife
,
With
bloodless
stroke
my
heart
doth
gore
;
M
.
O
.
A
.
I
.
doth
sway
my
life
.
M
.
O
.
A
.
I
.
This
simulation
is
not
as
the
former
,
and
yet
to
crush
this
a
little
,
it
would
bow
to
me
,
for
every
one
of
these
letters
are
in
my
name
.
Soft
,
here
follows
prose
.
If
this
fall
into
thy
hand
,
revolve
.
In
my
stars
I
am
above
thee
,
but
be
not
afraid
of
greatness
.
Some
are
born
great
,
some
achieve
greatness
,
and
some
have
greatness
thrust
upon
’em
.
Thy
fates
open
their
hands
.
Let
thy
blood
and
spirit
embrace
them
.
And
,
to
inure
thyself
to
what
thou
art
like
to
be
,
cast
thy
humble
slough
and
appear
fresh
.
Be
opposite
with
a
kinsman
,
surly
with
servants
.
Let
thy
tongue
tang
arguments
of
state
.
Put
thyself
into
the
trick
of
singularity
.
She
thus
advises
thee
that
sighs
for
thee
.
Remember
who
commended
thy
yellow
stockings
and
wished
to
see
thee
ever
cross-gartered
.
I
say
,
remember
.
Go
to
,
thou
art
made
,
if
thou
desir’st
to
be
so
.
If
not
,
let
me
see
thee
a
steward
still
,
the
fellow
of
servants
,
and
not
worthy
to
touch
Fortune’s
fingers
.
Farewell
.
She
that
would
alter
services
with
thee
,
The
Fortunate-Unhappy
.
Daylight
and
champian
discovers
not
more
!
This
is
open
.
I
will
be
proud
,
I
will
read
politic
authors
,
I
will
baffle
Sir
Toby
,
I
will
wash
off
gross
acquaintance
,
I
will
be
point-devise
the
very
man
.
I
do
not
now
fool
myself
,
to
let
imagination
jade
me
;
for
every
reason
excites
to
this
,
that
my
lady
loves
me
.
She
did
commend
my
yellow
stockings
of
late
,
she
did
praise
my
leg
being
cross-gartered
,
and
in
this
she
manifests
herself
to
my
love
and
,
with
a
kind
of
injunction
,
drives
me
to
these
habits
of
her
liking
.
I
thank
my
stars
,
I
am
happy
.
I
will
be
strange
,
stout
,
in
yellow
stockings
,
and
cross-gartered
,
even
with
the
swiftness
of
putting
on
.
Jove
and
my
stars
be
praised
!
Here
is
yet
a
postscript
.
Thou
canst
not
choose
but
know
who
I
am
.
If
thou
entertain’st
my
love
,
let
it
appear
in
thy
smiling
;
thy
smiles
become
thee
well
.
Therefore
in
my
presence
still
smile
,
dear
my
sweet
,
I
prithee
.
Jove
,
I
thank
thee
!
I
will
smile
.
I
will
do
everything
that
thou
wilt
have
me
.
O
,
what
a
deal
of
scorn
looks
beautiful
In
the
contempt
and
anger
of
his
lip
!
A
murd’rous
guilt
shows
not
itself
more
soon
Than
love
that
would
seem
hid
.
Love’s
night
is
noon
.
—
Cesario
,
by
the
roses
of
the
spring
,
By
maidhood
,
honor
,
truth
,
and
everything
,
I
love
thee
so
,
that
,
maugre
all
thy
pride
,
Nor
wit
nor
reason
can
my
passion
hide
.
Do
not
extort
thy
reasons
from
this
clause
,
For
that
I
woo
,
thou
therefore
hast
no
cause
;
But
rather
reason
thus
with
reason
fetter
:
Love
sought
is
good
,
but
given
unsought
is
better
.
She
did
show
favor
to
the
youth
in
your
sight
only
to
exasperate
you
,
to
awake
your
dormouse
valor
,
to
put
fire
in
your
heart
and
brimstone
in
your
liver
.
You
should
then
have
accosted
her
,
and
with
some
excellent
jests
,
fire-new
from
the
mint
,
you
should
have
banged
the
youth
into
dumbness
.
This
was
looked
for
at
your
hand
,
and
this
was
balked
.
The
double
gilt
of
this
opportunity
you
let
time
wash
off
,
and
you
are
now
sailed
into
the
north
of
my
lady’s
opinion
,
where
you
will
hang
like
an
icicle
on
a
Dutchman’s
beard
,
unless
you
do
redeem
it
by
some
laudable
attempt
either
of
valor
or
policy
.
Never
trust
me
,
then
.
And
by
all
means
stir
on
the
youth
to
an
answer
.
I
think
oxen
and
wainropes
cannot
hale
them
together
.
For
Andrew
,
if
he
were
opened
and
you
find
so
much
blood
in
his
liver
as
will
clog
the
foot
of
a
flea
,
I’ll
eat
the
rest
of
th’
anatomy
.
Look where the youngest wren of mine comes .
Th’
offense
is
not
of
such
a
bloody
nature
,
Albeit
the
quality
of
the
time
and
quarrel
Might
well
have
given
us
bloody
argument
.
It
might
have
since
been
answered
in
repaying
What
we
took
from
them
,
which
,
for
traffic’s
sake
,
Most
of
our
city
did
.
Only
myself
stood
out
,
For
which
,
if
I
be
lapsèd
in
this
place
,
I
shall
pay
dear
.
Sad
,
lady
?
I
could
be
sad
.
This
does
make
some
obstruction
in
the
blood
,
this
cross-gartering
,
but
what
of
that
?
If
it
please
the
eye
of
one
,
it
is
with
me
as
the
very
true
sonnet
is
:
Please
one
,
and
please
all
.
I’ll
come
to
him
.
Good
Maria
,
let
this
fellow
be
looked
to
.
Where’s
my
Cousin
Toby
?
Let
some
of
my
people
have
a
special
care
of
him
.
I
would
not
have
him
miscarry
for
the
half
of
my
dowry
.
O
ho
,
do
you
come
near
me
now
?
No
worse
man
than
Sir
Toby
to
look
to
me
.
This
concurs
directly
with
the
letter
.
She
sends
him
on
purpose
that
I
may
appear
stubborn
to
him
,
for
she
incites
me
to
that
in
the
letter
:
Cast
thy
humble
slough
,
says
she
.
Be
opposite
with
a
kinsman
,
surly
with
servants
;
let
thy
tongue
tang
with
arguments
of
state
;
put
thyself
into
the
trick
of
singularity
,
and
consequently
sets
down
the
manner
how
:
as
,
a
sad
face
,
a
reverend
carriage
,
a
slow
tongue
,
in
the
habit
of
some
Sir
of
note
,
and
so
forth
.
I
have
limed
her
,
but
it
is
Jove’s
doing
,
and
Jove
make
me
thankful
!
And
when
she
went
away
now
,
Let
this
fellow
be
looked
to
.
Fellow
!
Not
Malvolio
,
nor
after
my
degree
,
but
fellow
.
Why
,
everything
adheres
together
,
that
no
dram
of
a
scruple
,
no
scruple
of
a
scruple
,
no
obstacle
,
no
incredulous
or
unsafe
circumstance
—
what
can
be
said
?
Nothing
that
can
be
can
come
between
me
and
the
full
prospect
of
my
hopes
.
Well
,
Jove
,
not
I
,
is
the
doer
of
this
,
and
he
is
to
be
thanked
.
Fare
thee
well
,
and
God
have
mercy
upon
one
of
our
souls
.
He
may
have
mercy
upon
mine
,
but
my
hope
is
better
,
and
so
look
to
thyself
.
Thy
friend
,
as
thou
usest
him
,
and
thy
sworn
enemy
,
Andrew
Aguecheek
.
If
this
letter
move
him
not
,
his
legs
cannot
.
I’ll
give
’t
him
.
Now
will
not
I
deliver
his
letter
,
for
the
behavior
of
the
young
gentleman
gives
him
out
to
be
of
good
capacity
and
breeding
;
his
employment
between
his
lord
and
my
niece
confirms
no
less
.
Therefore
,
this
letter
,
being
so
excellently
ignorant
,
will
breed
no
terror
in
the
youth
.
He
will
find
it
comes
from
a
clodpoll
.
But
,
sir
,
I
will
deliver
his
challenge
by
word
of
mouth
,
set
upon
Aguecheek
a
notable
report
of
valor
,
and
drive
the
gentleman
(
as
I
know
his
youth
will
aptly
receive
it
)
into
a
most
hideous
opinion
of
his
rage
,
skill
,
fury
,
and
impetuosity
.
This
will
so
fright
them
both
that
they
will
kill
one
another
by
the
look
,
like
cockatrices
.
That
defense
thou
hast
,
betake
thee
to
’t
.
Of
what
nature
the
wrongs
are
thou
hast
done
him
,
I
know
not
,
but
thy
intercepter
,
full
of
despite
,
bloody
as
the
hunter
,
attends
thee
at
the
orchard
end
.
Dismount
thy
tuck
,
be
yare
in
thy
preparation
,
for
thy
assailant
is
quick
,
skillful
,
and
deadly
.
Nothing
of
that
wonderful
promise
,
to
read
him
by
his
form
,
as
you
are
like
to
find
him
in
the
proof
of
his
valor
.
He
is
indeed
,
sir
,
the
most
skillful
,
bloody
,
and
fatal
opposite
that
you
could
possibly
have
found
in
any
part
of
Illyria
.
Will
you
walk
towards
him
?
I
will
make
your
peace
with
him
if
I
can
.
He
is
as
horribly
conceited
of
him
,
and
pants
and
looks
pale
as
if
a
bear
were
at
his
heels
.
I
know
of
none
,
Nor
know
I
you
by
voice
or
any
feature
.
I
hate
ingratitude
more
in
a
man
Than
lying
,
vainness
,
babbling
drunkenness
,
Or
any
taint
of
vice
whose
strong
corruption
Inhabits
our
frail
blood
—
What
,
what
?
Nay
,
then
,
I
must
have
an
ounce
or
two
of
this
malapert
blood
from
you
.
This
is
the
air
;
that
is
the
glorious
sun
.
This
pearl
she
gave
me
,
I
do
feel
’t
and
see
’t
.
And
though
’tis
wonder
that
enwraps
me
thus
,
Yet
’tis
not
madness
.
Where’s
Antonio
,
then
?
I
could
not
find
him
at
the
Elephant
.
Yet
there
he
was
;
and
there
I
found
this
credit
,
That
he
did
range
the
town
to
seek
me
out
.
His
counsel
now
might
do
me
golden
service
.
For
though
my
soul
disputes
well
with
my
sense
That
this
may
be
some
error
,
but
no
madness
,
Yet
doth
this
accident
and
flood
of
fortune
So
far
exceed
all
instance
,
all
discourse
,
That
I
am
ready
to
distrust
mine
eyes
And
wrangle
with
my
reason
that
persuades
me
To
any
other
trust
but
that
I
am
mad
—
Or
else
the
lady’s
mad
.
Yet
if
’twere
so
,
She
could
not
sway
her
house
,
command
her
followers
,
Take
and
give
back
affairs
and
their
dispatch
With
such
a
smooth
,
discreet
,
and
stable
bearing
As
I
perceive
she
does
.
There’s
something
in
’t
That
is
deceivable
.
But
here
the
lady
comes
.
Put
your
grace
in
your
pocket
,
sir
,
for
this
once
,
and
let
your
flesh
and
blood
obey
it
.
Notable
pirate
,
thou
saltwater
thief
,
What
foolish
boldness
brought
thee
to
their
mercies
Whom
thou
,
in
terms
so
bloody
and
so
dear
,
Hast
made
thine
enemies
?
Has
broke
my
head
across
,
and
has
given
Sir
Toby
a
bloody
coxcomb
too
.
For
the
love
of
God
,
your
help
!
I
had
rather
than
forty
pound
I
were
at
home
.
If
a
bloody
coxcomb
be
a
hurt
,
you
have
hurt
me
.
I
think
you
set
nothing
by
a
bloody
coxcomb
.
Here
comes
Sir
Toby
halting
.
You
shall
hear
more
.
But
if
he
had
not
been
in
drink
,
he
would
have
tickled
you
othergates
than
he
did
.
Get
him
to
bed
,
and
let
his
hurt
be
looked
to
.
I
am
sorry
,
madam
,
I
have
hurt
your
kinsman
,
But
,
had
it
been
the
brother
of
my
blood
,
I
must
have
done
no
less
with
wit
and
safety
.
You
throw
a
strange
regard
upon
me
,
and
by
that
I
do
perceive
it
hath
offended
you
.
Pardon
me
,
sweet
one
,
even
for
the
vows
We
made
each
other
but
so
late
ago
.
Do
I
stand
there
?
I
never
had
a
brother
,
Nor
can
there
be
that
deity
in
my
nature
Of
here
and
everywhere
.
I
had
a
sister
,
Whom
the
blind
waves
and
surges
have
devoured
.
Of
charity
,
what
kin
are
you
to
me
?
What
countryman
?
What
name
?
What
parentage
?
Be
not
amazed
;
right
noble
is
his
blood
.
If
this
be
so
,
as
yet
the
glass
seems
true
,
I
shall
have
share
in
this
most
happy
wrack
.
—
Boy
,
thou
hast
said
to
me
a
thousand
times
Thou
never
shouldst
love
woman
like
to
me
.
Look
then
to
be
well
edified
,
when
the
Fool
delivers
the
madman
.
By
the
Lord
,
madam
—